Cranberry Nights
by SadieMichelle
Summary: A near death experience forces Molly to reprioritize everything she once knew. She moves on, determined to live a meaningful life. But not everyone is so content with being left in the dust.
1. The Lives of Others

**As this story begins, I just want you to keep in mind that not everything is as it seems. Sherlock's going to be a prick in the beginning and Molly is going to have developed a backbone. Each character has their own reason for their actions. I am trying out a different characterization of Molly and Sherlock, so there's your warning about potential OC-ness. I've been wanting to do a story about Molly refocusing her life after a near death experience for quite a while, but only recently found the guts to write it. I'm sure the idea's been done before, but hopefully I'm able to make it sound reasonably interesting. Hope you enjoy! **

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**Chapter 1 - The Lives of Others**

"Sherlock, mind if I ask you something?"

The curly haired man gave a dramatic sigh, but otherwise, kept his eyes glued to the microscope lens.

"It's about Molly," John elaborated, throwing a brief glance at the woman's deserted desk.

"What about Molly?" Sherlock drawled, tone not overly concerned, eyes squinted.

"Have you noticed something different about her?"

"No."

John's eyebrows rose slightly.

"You're sure, mate?"

"Of course."

The lack of empathy in his voice bothered John more than he let on. Granted, the consulting detective could be an unemotional git towards anyone, but Molly wasn't just anyone anymore. The pathologist risked her working career to carry out his fake death and for a full year, offered him shelter in her own home. That made her not only someone they could indefinitely trust, but a true friend.

And the last thing John wanted to see was Sherlock resort back to indifference when it came to Molly Hooper. She meant too much to them both to be ignored or brushed off.

"Sherlock, when's the last time you've looked at her?" he continued, tone firmer. "I mean truly looked. There's something off about her."

"Molly's just fine."

"How could you possibly know? You've been ignoring her ever since you've made your public entrance back into the world."

Sherlock finally tore himself away from the microscope to peer at his friend.

"I say hello. She says hello back. There's nothing more that needs to be said."

"She saved your life," John pointed out. "Are you really going to keep treating her to just a hello? Blimey, you're more emotionally distant towards her now than you were prior to your suicide."

The detective's jaw tightened slightly, but it didn't keep him from a response.

"Why does this even matter? We're both at an understanding. She knows the part she's played and I'll be eternally thankful for her assistance. Nothing more needs to be said. Now will you drop it and allow me to get back to discovering how a pathogen normally habitable to West Africa, managed to be slipped into the stomach contents of an elderly woman from Yorkshire who's too weak to so much as walk up her own stairs?"

"Fine," John caved in, shaking his head. "Forget it then. But this isn't right. Blowing her off. I think there's something going on with her. Gut feeling."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Most likely, she's got a new boyfriend."

"New boyfriend?" John repeated.

"Obviously," Sherlock deduced sharply. "She's back to wearing velvet lipstick and an atrocious amount of perfume far too mature for her. All last week, she played around with hair styles. Not exactly sure what he likes, trying a bit of everything to impress him. If her mobile goes off in the middle of an autopsy, she waits no more than five minutes before texting back. Unprofessional, but shows a growing attachment."

The doctor didn't reply immediately, lost in his own thoughts.

"Though," the detective added, "knowing her former relationships, I doubt this one will last past a month."

At this, John frowned. Not just at the statement, but the almost smug way Sherlock voiced it.

"Considering the risks she took to help you, I thought you'd be happy for her."

"Why waste the energy?"

And with that, Sherlock spun back to the mircoscope, eyes focused on his work.

"Christ, Sherlock, that's cold. Even for you."

"You sound offended."

"I am. You should be too. Molly's your friend."

"I don't have-."

"Yes you do," John interrupted. "You have friends. You know you do."

Sherlock made an undefinable noise at the back of his throat.

"Look...all I'm asking is that you take a look at her yourself-."

"-already have-."

"-I mean her eyes," John specified tiredly. "Look at her eyes. They're normally bright and full of passion. Lately, they've been lacking it."

"Easy deduction for you. She's depressed."

"But you said she has a boyfriend."

"Doesn't mean he isn't a depressing boyfriend."

"She answers all his texts during work."

"Might be responding because she knows he doesn't like being ignored. Probably thrown a fit already."

"Could he be dangerous?"

"Don't know, don't care. Molly's business, not mine."

At this, John couldn't keep his mouth from opening.

"Since when have you _not_ concerned yourself with Molly's business?"

"Contrary to popular belief, my mind does not constantly orbit Planet Molly."

"Not what I was getting at. I mean if you saw a potentially bad situation coming, you'd warn her immediately. Even if it wasn't in the politest of ways."

"She's fine."

"You just said-."

The detective released an agitated sigh, pulling himself away from the microscope once more.

"Has it _ever_ ocurred to you that you might be misinterpreting what you're seeing? Admittedly, depression is a bit drastic when it comes to Molly Hooper. And as far as I can tell, she's been her normal, annoyingly chipper self."

"Then you haven't been looking at her properly. You of all people, Sherlock, can look past a mask and see someone's true self. Something's happened in Molly's life recently that's changed her. Just a gut feeling I can't shake. Which is why I was hoping to get a bit of insight from you."

"Nothing's changed," he assured neutrally.

"But you don't know that!" John protested. "You're refusing to look at her. Properly look at her. Not see, but observe. Your words."

"Yes, I understand my own advice, thank you," Sherlock bit back.

"Then why are you ignoring what I'm saying?"

"Because I have lived with Miss Hooper for a full year and know her pattern of life like the back of my own hand. Though, I'd say the back of my hand is a tad more interesting. She's kept the same routine for the past two months, John. Still brings me coffee like before, still makes deplorable attempts at small talk - though in the past month, I'm happy to admit those attempts have substantially decreased, still helps me with my work, and still wears an overly optimistic smile each day. If anything momentous was to occur in Molly Hooper's life, I would be able to tell because she wouldn't have such a bloody repetitive schedule!"

He finished his rant with a pointed glare, clearly not wanting to continue the subject.

And John would have obliged had he not been so utterly puzzled by Sherlock's reaction to his own concern.

"Sherlock...did anything...happen between you and Molly while you were living with her?"

It's the only assumption he could draw considering Sherlock's dismissiveness towards the pathologist and his avoidance of speaking about her directly. This sort of behavior indicated something had happened in their working relationship. Something that clearly made Sherlock disassociate himself from Molly's life almost completely.

Briefly, John wondered if perhaps it was in the sexual nature. Molly had been in love with Sherlock for as long as he could remember. Sharing your living space with the individual you were infatuated with could possibly have bred some unlikely situations. Situations where someone who wasn't prepared for it, might say or do things that forever crippled the already comfortable relationship at work.

_This is Sherlock, _John harshly reminded himself. _I'm not exactly sure he'd even know what to do if Molly decided to put the moves on him._

The longer Sherlock kept up his silence, however, the more John believed himself to be somewhat close to the truth.

"Don't be preposterous," Sherlock finally answered. "Your assumptions are clouding your judgement. Nothing occurred between Miss Hooper and myself. Ask her for yourself if you think something is so terribly wrong."

John closed his mouth, knowing this was as much he was going to get from the man on the subject.

So, he let Sherlock's attentions fall back to the microscope, internally debating with himself whether he should just ask Molly if anything was wrong. He could be, just as Sherlock pointed out, misinterpreting what he was seeing.

Just as this thought drifted through his head, the morgue doors flew open.

"Ah, Lestrade," Sherlock acknowledged, not looking up from his workplace. "Do tell me there is another case on it's way. This one is growing tedious and ungodly transparent."

The Detective Inspector momentarily ignored the request, eyes scanning Molly's vacant desk.

"Would either of you happen to know where Molly is?"

"When I called earlier, she said she'd be in by noon," John answered helpfully.

"Right. Well, will you have her get in contact with me immediately? I think she'll be relieved to know we got the bastard."

At this, John's eyebrows rose inquisitively.

"Since Sherlock's sitting behind me, I don't assume you mean him. What bastard are we talking about?"

Lestrade gave him a small smile.

"Pete Morris."

"Who's Pete Morris?"

When he was met with John's blank stare, Lestrade's smile wavered. Wordlessly, he glanced between the detective and the doctor, seemingly debating something.

"I thought Molly had told you two," he finally confessed. "She assured me she had."

"Told us what?"

This time, Sherlock's baritone voice demanded the answer, though his eyes hadn't yet strayed from the study before him.

"God this is awkward," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Er, about a month ago after a graveyard shift, Molly returned to her flat in the middle of a robbery. Bloke's name was Pete Morris. Instead of leaving, he...made himself at home, so to speak. Molly's never specified how long of a time period it was that he stayed, but he held a gun to her the entire time. Probably would have killed her had she not managed to escape and lock herself in the bathroom to call us. Bastard was gone before we got there."

"Oh my God," John gasped, feeling his insides twist.

"That night, I talked to her," Lestrade continued, his face flushing slightly. "She assured me she'd tell you all about it the next morning. Needed a proper night to digest it all. Few days later, said you two were too busy to track down the man. And I do specifically remember the week she's talking about. The cases were overwhelming with that crime spree tearing through the city. After that week was over, she just told me it didn't rank high enough as an interesting investigation for you two. Said Sherlock practically fell asleep while she recited it to him."

"Molly is our friend," John scoffed. "How could you think we'd ever react that way? Even Sherlock, for as much as he does hate dull cases, wouldn't ignore the chance to help her after something so traumatic happened."

"I did think it a bit odd," he admitted. "But Molly was very adamant in her belief that it was an unnecessary case for you two. By this time, she was behaving like her old self. Remarkable, really, to have bounced back so fast. Said she didn't want to take advantage of you two just because you were her friends. Police could actually do their jobs without running to Sherlock every single time. And...knowing you, Sherlock, and your desire for an interesting case, I let myself believe her. I never thought she was lying."

A stagnant silence followed his declaration in which John tried to process all this new information while Sherlock's eyes remained trapped downwards, though it wasn't the specimen he was staring at.

"I'm sure she had a good reason to not tell you," Lestrade inserted hopefully. "Her experience isn't exactly one she could freely tell anyone who asked. Plus, the fact that he'd been a man might also have made her hesitate."

Neither detective nor doctor uttered a word.

"Well...if you could tell her to get in contact with me, that'd be really good. It was a personal request on her part for me to tell her when we got him. I think she'll sleep better at night."

"Of course," John nodded forcefully.

With that, the tension ever so leisurely disassembled as the Detective Inspector shuffled out of the room.

In the minutes after, John tried to control his tongue. He really did.

But he couldn't quite manage it in the end because he felt an honest to god anger towards the consulting detective.

"Still sure she's just fine?"

()()()()()()()()()

"Coming over tonight then, Molls?"

Said girl pressed her mobile closer to her ear with a strained shoulder, steering around a hallway.

"Course I am. Why wouldn't I?"

"You're working pretty late. I don't want you dead on your feet."

"That's actually funny. A pathologist dead on her feet. You should write comedies."

"Natural born gift, mum always said. But seriously, if you're not up for it, we can reschedule."

"Bollocks. I'm not letting my job prevent me from having a good time."

"That's great to hear. I've gotta say that I'm totally loving this new you. All of a sudden, you're not afraid to take risks. Don't know what got into you, but I'm happy it did. Can't keep yourself locked up in that morgue your entire life."

Molly's smile faltered upon recalling just exactly what incident had led her to the current carefree nature she was exhibiting.

_No, Molly, you are not going to get upset about it again. You are not going to be paralyzed by that bloody fear like you were that night. _

"Was I really that bad?" she inquired.

"I didn't even know you were still living in London until you phoned last month! Took me by surprise to see your sudden willingness to finally live for once. Honestly, from the few times we spoke, I recall you being married to your work and infatuated with that arrogant bloke, Sherlock Holmes. In between that, you never took care of yourself."

Though the admission was a bit difficult to hear, Molly couldn't deny its truthfulness. She'd been mousy, insecure, and mostly kept her priorities centered around her work. A stark contrast to the confident, adventurous, and witty person she always knew she was, but never allowed herself to be.

_Why is that?_

Well, her line of work certainly dampened down her adventurous spirit. And when one worked mostly alone, they could tend to forget that they're actually capable of witty banter and speech with living people.

_How about the confidence, Molly? How'd that one disappear? What crevice in your chest did that one saunter off to?_

A part of it had to do with how life hadn't really accelerated anywhere fascinating after she'd turned thirty, three and a half years ago. She still worked with the dead, still sat alone in her flat with only a feline for company, and still remained glaringly single. Equipped with a plain face, she wasn't exactly a magnet for suitors. And the ones who did stick around were either eventually turned off by her profession or were complete nutters.

_Yes, we're thinking about Jim, aren't we? Such a shame since he was a bloody fantastic snogger. Though, that'd be good critieria to write down on a dating site. Shy pathologist seeking mind-numbing kisser. Preferrably mental._

She nearly laughed at her own morbid humor, but refrained after passing by some rather grumpy looking nurses.

_What's the other part of it, Molly? We're not going to ignore such a momentous force in our life, are we?_

She never could when it came to Sherlock Holmes. The man who could simultaneously make her understand with a rare, vibrant clarity why every romance novelist wrote about love with such a compelling passion, before completely puncturing that euphoric revelation seconds later with a few cutting remarks.

Oh sure, one at a time, they'd been easy to fight off. Her undying admiration for his intellect and attraction to everything from his soul searing eyes to fit bum helped keep that smile bright and uncompromised.

But having to put up with the man you loved treating you like nothing repeatedly over a stretch of two years, while also ingoring the fact that he is detached enough to manipulate your emotions without so much as caring what those compliments do, so far as his needs are met, eventually grounds away at the marble confidence a girl can have.

To put it simply, Sherlock was an equal amounts blessing as he was a curse. Despite the storm each could ravage upon her heart, she had been undeniably hooked.

Not that any of these realizations had hit her at the time. That she was being treated poorly. Well, except the infamous Christmas party. In that illustrious moment, all her frustrations had bubbled out of her like a pot of water that's been left on the stove too long.

His apology soothed her fury of course and eventually, she'd been back to passive Molly.

_You thought things were finally going to change when he asked for help. When he claimed you mattered. Look what you did, Molly. You saved his life without asking for anything in return. You gave your trust and nurtured his semi-broken self as his ego and mind recuperated. Now, what was your gift in exchange? Ah, yes, a cold departure after finally declaring your love to him. Upstanding man, isn't he? To skirmmish off at the first sign of something honest and beautiful in his grasp._

Molly internally shuddered, wondering why her inner voice was beginning to sound a lot like Jim.

"Are you still with me?" came a shriek into her ear cavity.

Shaking her head, Molly murmured an apology into her cell, relieved when her eyes finally settled on the double doors to her lab.

"Sorry, Cass. My mind was at a Pink Floyd concert."

"Well I hope it's safely landed back by tonight. You gonna bring Noah along?"

Shifting her coat and bag to her right arm, Molly pulled open the morgue's door.

Once she slipped inside, her eyes immediately looked for John and Sherlock, just remembering she'd allowed them full access to the lab earlier in the morning.

Upon finding both both their forms angled towards her, but not observing their expressions, she mouthed a silent hello and offered a hasty wave before turning to walk to her desk.

"I'll try to bring him, but he does get bored easily. Chatting mindlessly over drinks isn't exactly his idea of a good time."

"Well too bad. Boyfriend's duty is to participate in relationship things."

"It's not all bad," Molly insisted, draping her coat and bag across her desk. "He's just having a hard time adjusting to doing domestic things. Used to live the life of a full time bachelor."

"Until you, Molly Hooper, finally tamed him."

Unable to keep back a light blush, Molly grinned down at her feet.

"That's a strong word. I'd like to think I expanded his options."

"And in turn, he expanded your legs. Comfortable exchange, I'd say."

Molly couldn't keep back her chuckle, remembering all over again why she loved Cassie's lecherous sense of humor.

"I've got to go. I'm at work."

"Fair enough. But I'm expecting to get properly sloshed with you tonight. And Noah. Prepare to spend the night."

"Be there 'round eleven. Bye."

"Bye."

With that, Molly slipped the phone into her bag. When it came to work, she needed focus. Something she learned she wasn't all too good at doing if Noah kept texting her.

"Hey, Molly."

Buttoning up her lab coat, Molly glanced up with a relaxed smile.

"Hi, John. Sherlock," she cheerily addressed, glancing between the doctor and the broody looking detective. "How's the case going? Solved it already, I bet."

Neither replied, but Molly didn't let this deter her mood. That was another thing that had been key in her recent metamorphosis from who she'd been a month prior. She couldn't let a lack of a warm response from the duo get her down, Sherlock in particular. She'd been on that road already, eagerly anticipating every response the detective would have, taking it so much to heart.

That wasn't a way to live and appropriately enough, she'd crashed and burned as a result.

So, she made her way over to the slab, eying the body bag before her, curious as to who the first unfortunate victim of the day would be.

"Molly."

"Hm?" she hummed, reading over the information regarding forty-three year old Robert Noonan.

_Pulmonary aspiration. Too much salt water in the lungs, drowned probably on holiday. Wow, certainly no mercy here. Had severe ashtma. That's the topping on the cake, isn't it?_

She studied the man with a grimace, unable to keep that ever present sympathy from briefly taking over.

_Don't think about family. You know that depresses you._

"Molly."

"Yes?" she mumbled, rolling on a pair of latex gloves.

"Lestrade stopped by," John informed.

After both gloves were comfortably molded to her hands, Molly looked up.

Only then did she finally take in the expressions covering each man's face.

John appeared trepidatious while Sherlock eyed her with such malice that she momentarily thought about apologizing to him for whatever it is she did.

_Pull yourself together, Molly. You're a grown woman. Cowering just because he's moody is exactly what lead to your confidence disappearing._

"What did he want?" she asked curiously, still maintaining a smile despite their severe looks.

"Nothing outrageously important," Sherlock interjected darkly, shooting her an unnerving glare. "Just wanted to let you know Pete Morris, the man who meant to create a mural on your wall composed of your brain matter, is in custody."

Molly felt her smile freeze at not just the frost in his voice, but the anger she now visibly saw in the tautness of his jaw and angles of his cheeks.

To put it lightly, Sherlock Holmes looked properly pissed off.

The need to apologize grew expansively, but Molly firmly clamped down her teeth, not submitting to the impulse.

_Most of the conversations you've had with Sherlock have consisted of you constantly apologizing for things that either you can't help or things that were never his business in the first place. Maintain your backbone, damn it. He stopped being a part of your life the moment he ran._

And like a rubber ball smacking off cement, Molly plastered a smile on her face, tapping into the actual relief she felt upon hearing the good news.

"Okey-dokey," she concluded. "You two will probably see Greg sooner than I do. Give him my thanks, won't you?"

With that, she snapped her attentions away from a gaping John and puzzled Sherlock, intent on getting to know the inner workings of Robert Noonan.

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**It's a bit different, I know, but I'm being lead by a leash in this general direction in which Molly doesn't cave in so easily and for once, thinks of her own happiness. And to specify if I didn't make it clear in this chapter, in the year Molly housed Sherlock, she did eventually come to proclaim her love to him, wanting liberation and hoping internally he felt the same way. But he instead leaves and finally announces his presence to the public, leaving their relationship in awkward shambles. A month passes by of him treating her coldly before she walks into her flat and into the path of Pete Morris. I'll get to her revelation and time with him later on. But that night changes everything for her, including this new air of confidence she has to live and decision to not be so hung up on Sherlock Holmes. I do hope that wasn't a complete bore to read. And I actually have a huge question for any who are reading this regarding what happens after the last episode of S2. I've read various stories in this fandom and have found authors writing about such things as Molly's cat - Toby, Jim's love for the tv show Glee, the period of time Molly housed Sherlock, Sebastian Moran being an evil git, etc. From what I've read, these things seem like common knowledge, but where exactly can I find this information? I may have just missed this information in the show or is this just widely accepted of how things probably went down? Is there an episode I've missed besides the six I've seen? Honestly, I'm just going partly from what I've picked up on and what I'm assuming myself. If someone could answer my inquiries, I'd be very thankful. Otherwise, let me know your thoughts in a review.**


	2. The Friends We Lose

**I'd like to thank everyone who responded to my query in the last chapter regarding how Molly's personal information was achieved. I had no idea she had a blog or that John's was actually real on BBC. And while I'm thrilled to go exploring them all, I've decided that I'll be routing a different course of events for Molly regarding her thoughts and actions regarding Sherlock and her past experiences. Other than that, I want to thank you all very much for providing me with such a great response. I never thought this story would gain much, especially with the OC-ness, but I think everyone internally roots for Molly to stick up for herself because Sherlock really does take her for granted. Also, just keep in mind that not everything is as it seems. Sherlock doesn't show vulnerable emotion often, or sentiment, so he might continue being a prick because it's easier to express himself this way. Less painful. Or maybe he just wants to be a prick. I don't know. He goes off on ramblings sometimes. Anyways, enjoy!**

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**Chapter 2 - The Friends We Lose**

The atmosphere hung heavy with a noxious tension as Molly continued her fluid motions, eyes focused on Noonan's chest cavity. She'd just done the procedural incision and was now studying the condition of his organs with a sharp eye when unexpectedly, John cleared his throat.

Knocked out of her study, Molly paused reluctantly, understanding a brief explanation would need to be related to the two men. It was cruel to leave them completely in the dark, especially John who Molly never had to play a guessing game with in figuring out whether or not he cared for her. His actions alone spoke for the ingrained kindness those who were close to him, saw.

The question now remained: how did she go about telling a polite John and moody Sherlock that everything from her perception of self to her understanding of how precious life was, had so drastically been altered in the course of just under a month?

She once had a speech prepared for this exact moment, actually, but that was before realizing how good of an actress she could be in front of Sherlock Holmes who never so much as commented on the way her smile never quite reached her eyes after the incident with Pete Morris.

Granted, she'd given it her all to act like nothing had happened. To explain to the greatest detective alive that she'd allowed herself to be victimized and frightened by a petty criminal, especially with the Moriarty debacle still fresh in their minds, was a needlessly humiliating experience. And fortunately, she didn't see Sherlock for an entire week after the incident, allowing her to submerge most of the vulnerability she'd experienced that night, away from prying eyes. Without even realizing it, Molly regressed back to her usual routine so flawlessly that even she was surprised at the progress she'd made.

But that didn't mean she hadn't wanted him to wordlessly appraise her like he did so often the corpses on a slab. To pick out what she'd been too angry and ashamed of explaining herself and pester her to tell him not because he needed an answer to her mystery, but because he generally cared about what went on in her life like she did with his.

Then again, this was Sherlock Holmes she was talking about. In the month that passed after the break in, she came to understand such a response was near improbable to usher out of the egotistical genius. Especially after he shut down when she'd made the greatest leap of blind faith and professed her love to him.

More to the point, however, the speech consisting of why exactly she kept up her silence, evaporated like smoke into dense air. The more Molly began to uncover the inner workings of who Sherlock really was, the more she realized how utterly unnecessary the speech was.

No matter how or when she told him, she knew he wouldn't react like a concerned friend. No, he'd do his own regression into an unfazed detective.

"It's difficult to be optimistic in such a cynical world," she began, smiling grimly at this as her eyes resumed their inspecting. "You're often put down, ridiculed, told off, and on occasion, nearly murdered. Not exactly an easy life style to maintain."

"Doesn't mean you can't ask for help," John gently spoke. "Molly, you know we would have helped you in a heart beat in finding the bastard. You could have come to us."

"The thought did cross my mind for about two seconds," she admitted, grabbing her recorder. "Hang on a sec, boys."

With that, her attentions shifted to the autopsy.

"Robert Noonan, male, aged forty-three. Suffered an asthma attack in salt water, trachea is tender to the touch and shows signs of inflammation and trapped mucus. Water retrieved from inside the lungs holds high amounts of salinity. Time of death ranges from twelve to fourteen hours, considering the decomposing process of the tissue."

She clicked off the recorder, dropping it on a nearby tray.

"Actually, could we have this conversation another time?" she decided, smoothing together the flaps of skin once united over his chest. "I want to get in at least six more before the day is over and I have a sinking feeling they're not going to be nearly as clear cut as Mr. Noonan here. Pun not intended."

"No."

The stubborn reply was voiced from the equally stubborn detective who calmly pushed himself away from his work bench, keeping his pace even as he approached her.

Molly felt a prickle of anger singe her insides. Only because the emotion made her hands clench, did she calmly move away from Noonan's body.

"This is my lab, Sherlock," she reminded, proud to maintain her composure. "You being here is a privilege, not a right. I'd hate to have to kick you out, or worse, make sure security doesn't allow you back on the premises. So, in the hopes of saving us all a headache, will you behave and drop the matter until _I_ am ready to discuss it?"

Though it lasted seconds, Molly saw the surprise flash across Sherlock's face, contorting his usually knowing mask into one of uncertainty.

_Good. About time he listens to someone else's monologue besides his own._

"Sherlock, I think we should-."

"Stupid," the detective interrupted, ignoring John as he neared the slab. "Stupid, stupid woman! Why stay in your flat when you knew he was still roaming the streets? You know bravery suits you terribly, Molly. And I told you to get your bolts replaced! A blind man with one hand could pick through your locks. Do you ever listen to anything I tell you?"

Molly faintly thought it was both a relief and a nauseance that she still didn't have a scalpel in her hand. Because the closer Sherlock approached, with only Noonan's graying form separating them, the more her fingers itched to use it.

_Odd, isn't it? How all of a sudden, you're seeing him for what he really is. Never mind any concern he might have had. Or fear that you could have died. His response is exactly as you imagined. Pity._

"Seeing you like this, Sherlock, is one of the reason why I _didn't_ tell you what happened," Molly informed as evenly as she could. "Only you would think to blame me for my stupidity rather than ask if I was alright. Only you would scold me for not having replaced my bolts with money I didn't have at the time rather than try to understand what happened in the flat that night. Stupid, stupid Molly with the imperfect mouth and breasts who shouldn't ever date and is expected to grovel to Sherlock Holmes for his protection after a burglary! My God, do you even listen to what you say sometimes?"

She didn't let him respond, throwing out a hand to silence whatever protests were ready to spew from his mouth. She could feel her inner anger rise, clouding all kindness threatening to charge through and censor her.

"Of course not! I swear that if my self esteem were any lower and I didn't instinctively know you were wrong with every hurtful thing you've ever said to me in the past few years, I'd probably have offed myself long ago. That's been your relationship with me, Sherlock. One of you paying occasional, insincere compliments to me so you could get what you wanted, followed by a wave of cruelty because it's so bloody easy for you to say something nasty rather than nice without considering who's feelings you've hurt. Well, I'm not putting up with it any longer, you hear me? And now that I've fully accepted for once in my life that there's no possible chance you could ever love someone as stupid as me, I'll kindly say what I've been meaning to for ages. Mind your own damn business and get the hell out of my lab!"

Her chest heaved at the end of the proclamation, and it took a fair amount of inhaling and exhaling to finally get her hands to stop shaking.

All the while, Sherlock stared at her impassively, his blue-green gaze hard and unwavering.

_Well, we can't take back the words now, can we? And don't let that guilt overwhelm you. If you never stuck up for yourself, he would have kept treating you like this for the years to come. It's the right thing to do, Molly. Repeat that instead of opening your mouth to apologize._

It wasn't until this thought drifted through her head that she realized her mouth had indeed been soundlessly inching open, readying herself to apologize because this was bloody Sherlock Holmes she just insulted and after this, there stood little chance of him ever talking to her again.

_Is that really such a loss, though? Years of pining for this man and what do you have to show for your affections? A few kind gestures and a shaky self image. This is your closure, Molly. You need to sever your ties with this man because he's kept you in a false state of hope for so long that you've forgotten how to live your life. You need to sever your ties from him so you can prepare yourself for what life's been trying to send you while you were too busy indulging in a school girl crush._

The longer Sherlock stared at her wordlessly, the easier it was for Molly to gather internal confidence in her awakening. Her mind unloaded all sorts of questions that she didn't have solid answers to, and in knowing they would remain answerless, her posture straightened, eyes shined with assertion, and mouth pursed in content.

_Why pine for a man who treats you beneath your own worth? Why allow his compliments to dictate your actions? Why allow him to be such a permanent figure in your life when you know you are nothing more than a speck of dust in his? You've given him so much heart, so much of yourself, Molly Hooper, that it's only fair you deserve some sort of retribution. An era in your life where the only pain you experience is bumping your knee getting out of a taxi or spilling hot cuppa on yourself. You should not be this emotionally spent at your age, especially now that you hold the knowledge of how quickly everything could end._

"John," Molly redirected, relieved to be able to speak without including the aggression her epiphany unleashed, "please escort Mr. Holmes out of my lab. I'm quite angry right now and this is for his benefit. Just as well, I most certainly will not be discussing my personal life over a cadaver."

The doctor nodded timidly, making his way over to the consulting detective like an incarcerated man dragging his feet against the tiled floors of death row.

Instead of acknowledging John's attempt at being reasonable, however, Sherlock burned her with one final, unreadable stare before pushing past his friend and stalking out the morgue doors.

Molly willed her guilt to stay contained at his departure. Yes, she may have just knowingly finally hit the last nail on the coffin, so to speak, of her and Sherlock's friendship, but that didn't mean she felt proud of ending things on such a bitter note.

_At this point, it had to happen like this. Playing nice would have made you a push over again._

"I couldn't do it anymore, John," she announced wearily after the silence got to be mutinous. "It was all so pointless and getting to be so depleting. I thought maybe things would change after his suicide. Doesn't ask for help, you know, from very many people. And things were good for awhile, but that's the underlying circumstance you're going to get with Sherlock, though it's impossible to see because he radiates so much bloody energy. Everything is temporary."

"He doesn't deserve all you've given him," John agreed sheepishly, his nod easing down the guilt she felt stir restlessly inside her. "But I've gotta know...what changed in your relationship in the year he was in hiding?"

She answered without hesitancy, and this time around, Sherlock's rejection felt just a little less wounding. Progress, she internally hoped.

"I told him I loved him."

"Ah."

"Not the brightest idea, is it?" she murmured, the corner of one lip rising up humorlessly. "Still, it needed to be said. Keeping it inside, or worse, expecting Sherlock to inaudibly understand, would only prolong the imbalanced state of whatever relationship we had."

"He didn't react well, I take it?"

"There actually wasn't much of a reaction at all. The next day, he was gone and the world learned of his miraculous resurrection. Month of April begins and ends with us working along side each other again like we did before, but I knew there was something off about him. Took me a while to label it as...detachment. Greeted me, sure. Insulted me as well for my inability to keep up with him when his brain soared only to the heights we know him to be capable of. Those things hardly changed. But he did because he never once brought up what I'd confessed to him nor any personal topics of debate that would normally allow him to display that rare vulnerability he's blessed with. Course by the time I understood what it was he was doing, I had the break in at my flat. Needless to say, my priorities changed after that. And those changes made it possible for me to finally tell Sherlock off today. I mean...it's pointless to love a man who doesn't know what love is."

"That might be laying it on a bit harsh."

"I have no doubt that he cares for people," Molly recanted. "I'm not denying that at all! He sacrificed his life and reputation for those he held dear to him. But I was never really quite one of those people, nor did I ever have a chance of being reasonably close. Knew it for awhile, but it took him insulting me today for me to finally voice it."

John appeared indecisive for a moment, but Molly hardly blamed him. She'd just partly pushed onto him the emotional journey she'd been on in the past month. Compared to the quiet, doting girl she'd been, it was understandably a great shock to absorb how hastily she'd slipped into the role of someone who didn't back down from an argument simply because the opponent was someone they once respected.

"I'm sorry."

"You've done nothing wrong," she assured. "Honestly, all this has more to do with my own set of revelations I've worked out. Eventually, I knew I'd have to detach myself from him the same way he did me. But I put it off because I was scared. Today, though, I couldn't keep it in. I blame myself enough as it is for what happened. But he took it to the point where I seriously debated slashing off all his curls just to get him to shut up for one second."

The man smiled slightly at this, tilting his head thoughtfully.

"Now that's actually not that bad of an idea. He always claims to not care what he looks like. But not everyone's born with the broody good looks, are they? I'd like to see him go a day in the life of an average bloke."

"Could never pull it off."

"Never," John agreed, his spirits rising slightly. "But in all seriousness, I'll keep Sherlock away from Bart's for as long as you need. Though you may feel a terrifying anger at him right now, it won't stay there forever. Trust me on this. I know it's asking a lot to brush off what he's said this time around, but you know him better than most people-."

Molly inaudibly found herself disagreeing with this, but let John continue because she didn't want to spoil the moment.

"-he'll be his usual intrusive self once he assumes the dust has settled. Hopefully, he'll appreciate you a litte bit more."

"Thank you, John."

"Anytime, Molly."

As an afterthought, John added, "If you ever want to talk about what happened between you and Morris, I'm here. I understand why the secrecy is necessary, but I've been told I'm a good listener. And I want to make sure that you're okay."

"I'm okay," Molly promised. "I've never been more okay in my life."

"I'm glad, then. You're important. To the _both_ of us."

She smiled, but it was one of those drained ones where she couldn't quite muster up the believability into it.

"You are," John reassured sternly, finally witnessing the proof of his previous worries to Sherlock. "He's too afraid to admit it because it makes him feel weak, but he wouldn't have survived Moriarty without you. And the fact that he's keeping you at such arm's length now might actually be because you mean more to him than even he's used to and he doesn't quite know what to do with that."

This time, Molly released a sarcastic chuckle, appalled and emboldened by her own disbelief in the statement.

"Sorry...that was rude," she apologized timidly. "Thank you for the consideration, though."

He looked like he had more to say, but his mobile buzzed insistently against his leg, breaking whatever sentimental mood had hung in the air.

They exchanged a final smile before the morgue simmered back into a comfortable silence as John's foot steps fled down the hallway.

"Well," she finally stressed out after a long minute, glancing down, "it's just you and me, Mr. Noonan."

She felt incredibly silly, chatting idly to a corpse, but she knew Sherlock did much of the same when he was engaged in a case. And while she wasn't exactly in the mood to praise the consulting detective for anything, she did feel a bit more liberated in knowing she wasn't the only one to partake in this abnormal indulgement.

Actually, it felt oddly therapeutic in a way. The dead keep secrets certainly far better than the living and in aftermath of Sherlock's departure, Molly was still feeling the slightest bit miffed. And empty. And hurt. And a whole bunch of other conflicting emotions.

"I didn't mean to ruin our friendship," she explained quietly. "I just wanted to know he cared. But...he doesn't."

Robert Noonan failed to respond.

Molly didn't mind.

()()()()()()()()()

"You've got to apologize."

Sherlock's disinterested gaze stayed fixed on the window, fingers strumming his violin lethargically. If it wasn't for the slight inclination the detective's head made in his direction, John would have thought he was being ignored completely.

"Sherlock," he repeated, voice firmer, "you do realize this changes things. Molly standing up for herself and threatening to take away your access to the lab is a wake up call. One I hope you're hearing loud and clear."

When this failed to elicit a response, John released a groan, struggling to convey the seriousness of what had occurred not even a full hour ago.

"You just called Molly Hooper stupid. You blamed her for a situation she had no control over. Your friend, Sherlock. Someone who's provided you with so much and has received so little in return. I get repulsed by how you handle things now and then, but this is the most I've been disappointed in you in a long time."

The detective stilled, narrowed eyes flicking over to the blogger.

"I hardly care if you're disappointed in me."

"Fine," John snapped, "then acknowledge this. Molly Hooper no longer considers you a priority in her life. Believe it or not, she's not nearly as stupid as you think she is. You've been cold to her and she knew it. With today, she's finally decided not to let it go on. She doesn't care anymore, Sherlock. She's tired of how you treat her and she's fully ready to move on with her life in light of almost having her own ended. That's not something to take lightly."

"You were always fond of being dramatic."

"You brushed her off when she told you she loved you!" he plowed on. "No matter how enamored Molly was, no one can ignore a reaction like that. You may not see it now, but she's changed. If you would have picked up on the warning signs sooner, you'd know that. And rather than behave indifferently, you should be bloody nervous to lose the trust of someone who cared about you so strongly."

When Sherlock maintained his silence, John ran a weary hand through his hair. Sometimes, it was like attempting to teach a privileged child what he did wrong.

"You know what...you're a grown man," the blogger decided. "You can make your own choices. I'm not cleaning this mess up and I'm certainly not going to help you figure out how to earn back Molly's trust. Because right now, I think distancing herself from you is the best choice she could have made. And you...well, you're making your feelings quite clear, aren't you? Impassive, uncaring, disinterested. Might be easy to keep the pretense up now, but along the road, you're going to regret treating Molly the way you did today. And next time around, she's not going to be there to nod her head and say it's okay. That, mate, is going to be on you."

Without allowing Sherlock to reply, John stomped through the kitchen and out the flat door.

In the wake of his absence, the detective discarded his violin onto the table, bolting up from his chair. He had the sudden initiative to work on three cases simultaneously, but all of this potential was being barricaded by the unexpected emotions spiraling inside him, collaborating together to make him feel utterly sick to his stomach.

"I've done nothing wrong."

But he felt far worse after voicing this, knowing that this time around, his words might have a bit more of a permanent effect on the person he'd used them on. Especially when anger hadn't been even remotely close to the emotion he'd actually felt upon learning how close to death Molly Hooper had came.

()()()()()()()()()

As the pale gray evening submitted to a windy, dark night, Molly found her thoughts wandering aimlessly whilst sewing up cadaver number five. They'd been chaotic all day, admittedly, but rather than helping her mull over the events of earlier this morning, these brought her back to the night the police surrounded her flat.

_"Molly."_

_Instinctively, the woman tightened the paramedic's blanket around her despite the material feeling heavy and itchy._

_"I have to take your statement."_

_Nodding, she acknowledged, "I'd rather have it be you, Greg."_

_The DI moved closer, recognizing Molly's reluctance to speak loud and focus unnecessary attention to her state._

_"Did he harm you? Physical bruises or scars?"_

_"No. But...he shot through the bathroom door once I managed to lock myself inside," she explained quickly, eyes focused on everything and nothing at the same time. _

_"He kept you at gun point the entire time?"_

_"Yes."_

_"He intended to kill you?"_

_The words didn't sound right, stringed together. It reminded Greg of the unfortunate euphemism that bad things happened to good people, Molly's case being no different. _

_"Yes."_

_He scribbled this down grimly. "What finally spurred you to fight him off and get yourself to the bathroom?"_

_A tremble gripped Molly for a brief moment as her eyes dropped to her feet. She didn't answer for a full minute, but she didn't use this abated silence to cry either. She just sat motionlessly, absorbing her shock._

_"He was going to force himself on me," she revealed vacantly, refusing to look at anything but the ground. "Kind of a present to himself, he said. For having come across such an obedient victim."_

_Greg's fingers tightened around the pen, but he let Molly continue on._

_"I did it on purpose. Complied, that is. I was waiting for him to falter and lift his gun away from me. Even for a moment so I could do something. And when he finally did, I managed to kneel him in the groin. Bought me a few extra seconds."_

_"I heard the gun shot through the phone when you called."_

_Her lips quirked up emotionlessly. "I felt the bullet pass behind me."_

_After this information was noted, Greg clicked his pen, point tip retreating. He scanned their area quickly and when no one person looked ready to invade their personal space, the DI lowered himself to a kneel beside Molly._

_"Are you alright?"_

_"Still in shock. I wish I could feel more," she told him, meeting his eyes cautiously. "But other than that, I'm okay."_

_"You know if I call Sherlock right now, the bastard will be caught by morning."_

_"Don't. I'll talk to him," she argued lightly. "He's been working on the same case for an entire week. It'll break his concentration."_

_"But Molly-."_

_"Greg, please. Just let me talk to him myself."_

_He found himself nodding to her request, knowing it'd be unfair of him to notify Sherlock without her consent. _

_"At least stay with some friends for a few days," he suggested gently._

_"And let myself give in to fear? I'm pathetic enough as it is. Jumping at my own shadow isn't how I want to handle this."_

_"You're not pathetic."_

_She smiled somberly at this._

_"I know. But he made me feel like I was. God, first it was Jim, now this. I don't know why I allow myself to be so easily blind sided by bad people."_

_Greg hadn't heard Molly speak so blatantly about her personal life up to this point in their working relationship and understandably, he couldn't help but extend his sympathy to her._

_"No one scans every inch of their flat after getting home from a twelve hour shift," he assured soothingly. "You're not at fault here, Molly. You were tired and the victim of unfortunate circumstance."_

_To his surprise, she shook her head stubbornly._

_"No...I was distracted. I've been so bloody distracted! I choose not to see my surroundings because I place my hope in unreasonable dreams. In unreasonable...people. And it pains me to say this, but I'm almost relieved something like this happened. It's made me snap out of it. It's made me see just how little and unhappily I've been living even though I've told myself otherwise."_

_Unsure how to respond, Greg simply allowed Molly her silence. He felt it was more of a personal statement rather than one for him to comment on. Even though he had plenty to say, starting with what happened inside the flat that made Molly so brazen and nearly unafraid. She was shaken up, sure, and still absorbing her situation, but Greg knew from enough encounters with female victims that Molly was handling her situation remarkably well considering the man intended to rape and kill her. _

_He wanted to know now more than ever, what sort of thoughts were tumbling around in her head. He was sure they'd even manage to surprise Sherlock who didn't regard many people as being strong willed._

_"When you find him, will you tell me?" she suddenly asked. "I want to know."_

_"Of course. Are you sure you don't want to stay with a friend tonight? Maybe Mary's?"_

_"No. She's with John tonight and I don't want to worry her."_

_Greg frowned at the answer. Preferrably, he'd have liked to have Sherlock stay with her. He couldn't decipher the nature of their relationship, but he knew a mutual concern for each other existed._

_But it was gruellingly obvious just by listening to the strain in her voice, that she didn't consider herself to be important enough to buzz up her friends and let her know she needed company. Especially with what happened to her._

_"I expect you to get in contact with me," he pressed. "I mean it, Molly. I want to know how you are. And tell Sherlock about what happened. If there's anyone who's more dedicated to helping you than us, it'd be him."_

_"I will. Thank you."_

_He lifted his arm, intending to offer her a half hug, but at her sharp flinch, his arm dropped. He knew not to take the panic in her eyes personally. It was a reflex in response to what occurred in her flat. But his temper rose at the idea of Molly being cursed with this sort of reaction, despite herself._

_"Take care and call if you need anything," he stated, moving to his feet._

_"Thank you, Greg."_

Her thoughts ripped away from the conversation and another bout of guilt rocketed through her. She'd lied to Lestrade in the face, someone who had wanted to do nothing more than help her. That certainly would make their next conversation a bit tense.

However, when she inspected the positive side of not informing Sherlock of her situation, Molly knew she made the right choice.

"That's painful to admit, you know," she told Lisa Grant's stitched up form. "That I can't tell him about my own brush with death because he'd disregard it. Even though I was so involved with his own life."

The word 'pathetic' briefly reared its head back again, but Molly pushed it away.

_Perhaps chatting to cadavers isn't as soothing as it was a few hours ago._

Nodding to herself, Molly inaudibly vowed to keep herself mute when observing her last body of the day. She couldn't afford to get irrationally depressed when she reminded herself a lively night was still ahead of her.

_That's new, isn't it? Month ago and I'd be returning to Toby and an empty apartment. But now I've got old friends, a pint or two to drink, and Noah Flint. Slowly but surely, it's working. To be excited by life again._

Once her mind preoccupied itself with Noah and the vigorous events that unfolded within the short amount of time they'd known each other, Molly visibly found herself relaxing.

Yes, she would make tonight eventful.

* * *

**Yes, their friendship is certainly busting apart at the seams. And who knew Molly would be somewhat alright with it? Let me know your thoughts in a review!**


	3. The Trouble We're In

**Reviews. My God. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. It's official. We love backbone Molly. Of course we do. Sherlock's treated her like crap and she deserves to be happy and move on. This chapter...what do I say? I took liberties here, damn it. A big risk. But I'm the author and I should hope that's expected of me. I don't want to say too much, but I will offer this as my excuse. Liquor is an excuse to behave like a loose extension of yourself. Thrown in with my poor attempt at humor and you have this. Please don't burn me. Enjoy! **

* * *

**Chapter 3 - The Trouble We're In**

"Good God, I thought you'd never make it! We were ready to start without you!"

Molly smiled sheepishly, offering her friend a quick hug.

"And Noah," Cassie exclaimed cheerily, "how are you?"

"Sober."

His serious response caused Cassie to explode in a fit of giggles, alerting Molly that she'd already gone through a few drinks herself.

"Serious, isn't he? Lighten up, sweetheart. Night's barely begun!"

Molly hid her grin behind a palm as she watched her boyfriend fight the urge to scowl.

"Play nice," she mouthed from beneath her hand.

Catching the comment, Noah slipped a false grin over his red lips, hazel eyes darkening with mischief.

"Cassie, beautiful...is that a new outfit?" he suddenly inquired.

Cassie glanced down at herself in surprise, fingers smoothing over the mini black cocktail dress.

"Yeah, it is. Surprised you noticed."

"How could I not? You look heavenly in it. Roger better keep an eye on you tonight, unless he wants to go to bed alone."

Blushing, Cassie ushered them further inside, one hand subconsciously clinging to the fabric of her dress with a lazy grin.

"Was that necessary?" Molly whispered, relaxing as Noah's tanned arm slipped around her shoulders.

"'Course it was," he murmured, lips brushing the outer shell of her ear. "She looks horrific and Roger knows it. But she'll probably gloat to him that I thought she looked sexy and that'll keep Roger's focus on her so he doesn't have the chance to eye fuck you all night."

"Roger doesn't do that," she argued lightly, eyebrows springing up. "Does he?"

Noah pulled her tighter into his side, cheek brushing against her own. The warmth from his body combined with his crooked smirk, made Molly's insides tingle like electricity. And while on most men, she thought the prickled, unshaved look caused them to appear older, on Noah, she couldn't bring herself to care. His eyes were so youthful already that his lack of constant shaving hardly bothered her. In fact, when he wore his thick framed glasses right before bed, he gained the appearance of a university professor, albeit a bit lankier.

Though, if she was honest with herself, Molly had to acknowledge that with or without the glasses, Noah Flint was downright handsome in a scruffy, bad boy kind of way. His light brown, Elvis hair offered him mystery, his tanned complexion from spending summers in Portugal during his youth gave him a fit appearance, and his expressive red lips could get either gender to muse over what it'd be like to kiss him.

How she had managed to snag him was sometimes a mystery even she couldn't answer completely. But he'd been there after the Pete Morris incident, understanding and teeming with energy. Such a combination made it impossible for her to keep denying his company when he so selflessly offered to expand her own meaning of what it meant to live freely and without regret. They'd met at the right place in the right time and it amazed her that she hadn't yet been bored or disengaged in their relationship.

While Sherlock had been unkind in voicing it, Molly did agree that on most occasions, it was wiser she didn't date. Either her career bothered her suitors or they were looking for a quick shag.

But, Noah was different. In mindset and in intentions. He lived every day like one great, big adventure - though he could be a bit of a hermit at times - and at this stage in her life, Molly couldn't find it in herself to complain, much less regret his unrestrictive nature. It helped bring out traits in herself that she'd long ago forgotten existed.

"Your innocence is going to blind you by the time you're fifty," Noah warned, kissing beneath her ear.

"And you'll get a permanent frown in the next decade if you don't stop being so grumpy."

His response was halted by Cassie's yell.

"Oi, Roger! Guess who's here? And guess who thinks I look downright _gorgeous_ in this dress?"

She didn't have to look at Noah to see his triumphant smirk.

Roger's thin form slid out of the kitchen, dark brown eyes immediately falling to Molly.

"Have you been complimenting Cass again, Molly?" he joked. "The dress looks horrid on her."

"Shut up," Cassie argued, rolling her eyes.

"Actually, I was admiring her," Noah interjected. "Dress clings to her in all the right places."

Roger released a nervous laugh, eyes suddenly gravitating toward his tipsy girlfriend.

"Second thought, she does look pretty decent," he admitted.

"Oh, come off it, you two! We're here to get smashed, not flirt like teenagers. Molly, you've got to try this new drink I've mixed. Nicked the recipe off the web. One shot and you'll be stripping like a stripper!"

"Stripping like a stripper?" Molly repeated, trying her hardest to stay serious. "That sounds lovely."

"Fantastic! C'mon, then," she gestured excitedly, moving to the kitchen. "Still can't believe you can hold your liquor better than Roger. Natural gift, Molly, natural gift."

"Really?" she laughed, pulling Noah after her. "My mum did mention I've got Russian ancestry somewhere in my family tree."

"Certainly explains the kidney of steel!"

"And your decision to cut up dead people for a living," Noah added.

Her playful shove only served to brighten his grin.

()()()()()()()()()

"Never again," Molly promised with a shout, attempting to keep her balance. "Not ever having that bloody thing again!"

"You've already had seven!" Cassie accused, snorting through her vodka. "What's the harm in one more?"

"Won't be able to drive properly."

"We walked," Noah reminded from the sofa, nursing his own glass of whiskey.

Molly's expression briefly became one of indecision, whatever logic her brain was able to function under, deducing the pros and cons of having another drink. Already, she planned on calling in sick tomorrow, a privilege she could afford considering her sick days were practically non-existant. And at the moment, she felt content and free, the haze of vodka suddenly making everything pleasant. Noah always said the morning after she was a very happy drunk. And right now, she couldn't argue with the testament.

"Have another!"

She grinned at Cassie's proclamation, offering the woman her empty glass.

"Christ, still can't believe Roger's out already," Noah complained. "Drinks like a fucking Yankee."

Slowly peddling backwards, Molly decided on taking careful sips of her renewed glass. If she kept up at the rate she was going, she'd be in Roger's position within the hour.

Her attempt to sit down ended up being more of a stumble backwards. Luckily, however, her drink was completely unharmed in the landing.

"Let's play a game!" Cassie announced.

"Fuck games," Noah argued. "We should watch the telly. Go surfing and each channel we get to that has a commercial, we take a shot."

"That sounds fun," Molly pitched in, leaning into Noah's outstretched arm. "Doesn't that sound fun?"

"Shit," Cassie grumbled, flicking on the tube. "We just got a cable package that includes five hundred channels."

For some reason, this made Molly burst into a fit of laughter, struck by the irony of the situation. By the time they got through all five hundred, they'd be well and out of it, she realized. Or poisoned by all the liquord they'd consumed.

"We should make it more interesting," the pathologist suddenly decided, shooting up from her slouch. "Winner gets-."

"-a new car!"

Molly and Noah stared at Cassie's beaming face.

"How the _fuck_ are we going to afford to give the winner a new car?" Noah demanded.

"Dunno," she shrugged off handedly. "Just a thought."

"I wouldn't mind having a car," Molly admitted, attempting to soothe her friend.

Noah stared up at the ceiling for a few seconds before his lips stretched into a grin.

"Okay, that could work. Winner gets a new car and losers have to steal it for them!"

Cassie's excited giggles couldn't keep the hesitancy out of Molly's face. By God, she certainly needed a new car. Her clunker was on its death bed, and it'd be the cruelest of fate to have it break down in the middle of nowhere should she decide to be adventurous and take a countryside road trip.

But stealing was wrong. It didn't matter how much alcohol coursed through her veins, to know this as fact. She was friends with half the bloody police force, for heaven's sake! It was completely irresponsible and, and, and...

"C'mon, Molly," Noah breathed into her ear, his hot breath making her shiver. "Consequences be damned. Let the excitement take a hold."

"We could get in trouble."

It was a lame attempt to stop what really was quite a thrilling idea.

"You work with stiffs all day and occasionally, a complete arse," Cassie piped in, suddenly feeling it wasn't worth the effort to say Sherlock Holmes's full name. "That's not real exciting. Plus, think how easily you could end up dead. Bam! Just like that! Hit by a taxi. Struck by lightning. Fall on a bleedin' knife. You need exciting memories to recall as you're dying. Ones that made you realize life was worth all those risks."

The words were sensible in their own way, especially since Molly had been living with these sort of thoughts drifting in and out of her mind for nearly a month. If having a gun pointed to your head for hours on end, taught her anything, it was that life was incredibly precious. And short. As Pete Morris leered at her, threatening to take her body and her life, Molly had only a handful of memories to seek comfort in from the metaphorical filing cabinet stored in her mind. First time she learned to read. Scoring a game winning goal with her awkward feet in a third grade football tournament. Her dad's surprise 40th birthday. Her own surprise sixteenth birthday. Getting accepted to her university. Attaining her degree for pathology. Sherlock Holmes.

At this very moment in her life, she didn't have a family. Which was where a majority of her fond memories had come from. Her career was now her own, leaving little more to push herself towards. And Sherlock Holmes was a fad of the past, erosive in his own way despite the smiles and feelings he'd managed to ignite within her.

These memories alone weren't enough. Not when the people who'd made them so grand, were gone from her life. She needed not only ones to add to the supply she already had, but to create ones that weren't so dependent on other people's actions. She needed to live them out herself with her own words and her own actions. It was scary, definitely. Who knew which ones would end up being regrets? But if the moment felt infinite and she enjoyed the hell out of it, then who was to say it was unjustified?

"Come on, Molly!" Cassie shouted excitedly, clapping her hands. "Live a little."

"This goes against every moral code I have," she reasoned quietly.

"Try not to lose, then," Noah suggested, pressing a quick kiss to the side of her chin.

In that sense, he had a fair point. Or at least partially intoxicated Molly thought he did.

"What determines the winner and loser?" she couldn't help but ask.

"After fifty channels," Cassie revealed, "we all take a straight line test. From sofa to kitchen, whoever walks it the straightest, is the winner."

She looked at Molly for approval, and for this, the pathologist was thankful. It offered her a few more seconds of thought.

"I just wanna say-."

"Molly, please," Noah implored, grabbing her hand, "don't hold back because you're scared of breaking the rules. Life is boring if that's the way you live it."

Inhaling deeply, Molly repeated, "I just wanted to say that I've always wanted to own a Ferrari."

"Oh God, I've created a monster!" Cassie groaned dramatically.

Molly's dwindling logic faintly wondered if that wasn't that far off from the truth.

()()()()()()()()()

Fifty channels and one highly amusing straight line test later and Molly found herself standing on the street outside of Cassie's flat, fingers rubbing at both arms for heat.

"That bleedin' ch-ch-cheater!" Cassie sputtered, mimicking Molly's actions as a shiver passed up her spine.

"Did he cheat?" Molly asked, fascinated by the number of fingers she was suddenly seeing on her hand. She counted fifteen, but each time she attempted to grab them all at once, they disappeared back to five.

"H-had to have," her friend protested. "Deal's a d-d-deal though."

"Right!" Molly nodded, grabbing onto Cassie's cold arm. "So...w-w-where are we off to-headed-going-to a place?"

Cassie's features briefly grew confused, but it seemed she had a miraculous talent for translating drunken gibberish because she answered not even a few seconds later. "Car dealership, maybe."

"To buy a b-boat, right?"

"Car," Cassie corrected quizzically, beginning a slow pace with uneven steps. "G-g-g-got to steal a...car f-for Noah."

"We-we're stealing _a_ car?" Molly gasped, feeling confident enough to detach her grip from Cassie. Which remarkably only caused her bare feet to zig zag minimally.

"Y-yeah. Gu-guess so."

In the distance, Big Ben released his glorious roar, indicating it to be one o'clock in the morning. The concrete below each woman's feet - they neglected footwear for reasons only known to those in a severely inebriated state - was still wet from the evening rain. A cold breeze blew at them relentlessly. Cassie took the worst of it in her little black dress while Molly had thought to grab a sweatshirt - Roger's maybe - allowing her to remain reasonably impervious to her environment. Though, she wished she would have tied back her hair. The wind kept sending the wisps into her mouth and she looked utterly comical to any passerby when attempting to spit the strands out.

"W-why a dealership?" Molly stuttered, stopping unexpectedly. "How b-b-bout we nick one off the street?"

"Fantastic id-idea. Mo-most of these so-sods don't even l-lock their doors," Cassie agreed.

So, together, the two thirty somethings ambled their way over to the curb of the road, peering carefully at the scattered cars parked alongside the pavement.

Molly didn't know how long they stood there, searching for a proper car to steal. She also was clueless as to where exactly they were. The streets looked all the same and the darkness in the air around them as well as in her head, muffled any distinguishable sounds.

"Oi! There something we can help find for you lovely birds?"

Molly's head jerked first in the direction of the holler while Cassie grabbed on to the pathologist's shoulder, steadying herself before she could turn her body.

From what she could make out, Molly noted two men swaggering toward them further down the sidewalk they currently stood on. Younger than themselves, but meaner looking, if their unzipped flies and greedy gazes were any indication.

"Oh Ch-Ch-Christ," Cassie bemoaned, inching closer to her. "We-we-we should sc-atter."

Nodding, Molly pulled Cassie toward the road, cursing softly when rough gravel impaled the soft pads of her feet.

"Where ya going?" came one of the yells. "Only want to have a chat."

Their laughs echoed down the street, sounding far more menacing in the dark environment.

Somewhere in the back of Molly's head, she understood that the men were speaking clear sentences. Which meant that they were far more sober than herself or Cassie. Which in turn meant that they needed to get somewhere to clear their own heads.

Stealing a car be damned! Right now, they needed a haven.

"C'mon," Molly mumbled, tugging her friend while eying the black strip of road for incoming traffic.

"Oi!"

This time, the shout was closer. And with Cassie's increasingly sluggish stumbling, Molly knew it was up to her to get them out of the men's sight. Who knew how persistent these Jehovah missionaries were?

Which of course, wasn't exactly the case. The men were drunks, clearly intending to corner both women. But Molly didn't like the thought that she had allowed herself to get so carelessly drunk as to have to run away from two creeps who may or may not want to rape her. Religious fanatics sounded far more soothing in her mind.

"OI! Get back here, ya tramps!"

Molly didn't know how she'd managed to morph her drunken speed walk into a sprint, but she didn't really stop to question it when her feet began slapping across the wet concrete, her surroundings becoming one dazed blur. Cassie's heavy breathing was the only indication that the woman was keeping up and Molly internally prayed she wouldn't fall behind. Not only because of the threat behind them, but because she knew she'd stop to help Cassie no matter what.

And so, a chase of sorts, ensued.

Molly sped down two blocks, sprinted across three intersections, meandered through one alleyway (to which she and Cassie wordlessly decided on splitting up so as to confuse the men, though neither realized the men ceased their pursuit after the first intersection), and circled around the same laundromat business two times before deciding she'd lost her pursuers.

With burning lungs and wobbly knees, Molly staggered to the side of Lucy's Laundromat, peering into the black alley attached to the business.

"Good golly, miss Molly," she half choked, half chortled into the dark, curious as to why Little Richard, of all people, was insistent on making himself at home in her head. By far, she should be worried about where she was and how to get home and if the latter wasn't possible, decide on where to crash for the night.

But liquor is a potent device and as Molly observed her trembling hands, as she stood on her sore and raw feet, as she inhaled the cold London air while her body pulsed with heat, as she soaked in the silliness that had transpired from one single drink until now, she couldn't help but think that she'd never felt more alive. It was a strange sensation to be sure, one she'd never experienced before. An electric buzz, so to speak, from head to toe, keeping a grin on her face despite her racing heart.

And without thinking it through, she began to laugh. Deep, harsh laughs that shook her thin frame and nearly brought tears to her eyes. She didn't know what struck her as funny, but she recognized it as a moment to enjoy before clarity in the morning set in.

"You alright?"

Stilling, Molly slowly rose herself from her bent position, eyes focused on the alley.

She was surprised she hadn't picked out the thin girl sooner, huddled near a dumpster, observing her wearily. Which actually made the situation even funnier, though Molly dared not laugh. If someone was shying away from her, it was best not to laugh and further unsettle her company.

"Yes," she brightly assured.

The woman, no older than twenty-one, wore a tattered and worn green army jacket paired with thin, pink shorts that reached mid-thigh. After taking a glimpse of the girl's exposed, nearly beet red legs, Molly determined she was slowly growing numb from the cold night. Her blonde pixie cut also exposed more skin to the air, but she was attempting to keep her neck warm with what looked to be a torn off pant leg, used as a scarf.

Quite suddenly, Molly's spirits sank, but her features softened.

"A-are you al-alright?" she attempted to ask, one palm resting against brick.

"Fine," the girl shrugged, huddling closer to the dumpster. "You sloshed?"

Molly didn't even bother denying it. Especially when in between each blink, the girl doubled in body mass.

"Yes I am," she expressed through a hiccup. "C-can I ask your name ?"

She shrugged again, appearing disinterested. "Don't care. Doubt you'll remember it in the morning. Name's Janeen."

"Janeen? O-oh, that's a bea-_utiful_ name. I'm M-Molly."

Janeen didn't respond to this blurb, huffing warm air at her knuckles instead.

"J-Janeen," Molly steadied, eyes blinking erratically, "w-w-would you happen to know my location?"

After sizing her up wordlessly, Janeen's gaze strayed to the street behind her.

"Know Pan's Bakery? You're standing on the street it's located on."

It took Molly a few hazy seconds before the place registered.

"Jesus!"

"Far from home?" Janeen guessed, smiling slightly.

"Bout twenty m-minu-minutes from h-home. F-fifteen from m-my-Cassie's in th-the opposite direction."

If Janeen was bothered by Molly's slurred speech, she never once indicated it.

"If you keep at the street behind you for two blocks and turn right at Moore's Paint Store then stay on that street for another block, you'll get to New Scotland Yard. It's nearing two so the streets shouldn't be that bad. Most of the pubs are on the other side of town."

Again, it took Molly some time to understand what was being said. But when she did, her smile returned and she beamed at the girl gratefully.

"I haven't g-got any money on me. To th-thank you."

"I don't give a damn, really. Money only gets you by for so long out here. Just get somewhere safe."

The unexpected concern at the end of Janeen's voice prompted Molly into action. This girl, who looked close to freezing and would probably slumber in the alley for the night, gave her direction selflessly. It was only courtesy, no matter how odd on normal occasion her next action might be, to return the favor.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Molly ignored the question for the moment, working on unsnapping the button of her blue jeans and pulling them past her thighs. It took a bit of wiggling for them to get past her knees and only seconds before they were at her ankles. She then proceeded to carefully lift one foot out, then the other, before tugging the jeans off her body and making her way back into a standing position, nearly sighing at the cool air mingling with her sweaty skin.

"Here," Molly offered, handing over her jeans, "you take them."

Janeen stared at her as if she'd just slapped her. Which Molly didn't think she had. She wasn't sure why she'd do that to the girl who'd just helped her out.

"You're mental," the girl finally cried.

"Dr-drunk, maybe," Molly agreed. "Bu-but no one deserves to be alone _and_ cold. We're b-bout the sa-same size."

Ever so slowly, Janeen's eyes moved to the jeans being extended to her.

"You'll get cold yourself," she pointed out.

"Just ran a few k-kilometers, I think. My body's hot enough as it is."

She still eyed the jeans skeptically.

"Please," Molly insisted, voice softening, "I w-want you to have them. I'll be going to the po-police station and they'll get me a sp-spare there. You-you've got nothing. That's not fair. Take them."

Janeen approached hesitantly at first, but Molly remained patient, knowing internally that this was the right thing to do. Granted, she'd look mental herself, walking down the street in nothing but a maroon, oversized sweatshirt and black knickers. But if it helped Janeen get through the night without losing feeling in her legs, then it was worth it.

"Thank you," Janeen accepted with a shaky voice, taking the jeans. "I'll return them. I swear."

"Do-don't need too," she brushed off, inching her way towards the street once more. "Y-yours to keep."

"I-no. I'll return them. To New Scotland Yard. I'll tell them to give them to you. What's your last name?"

Satisfied to have begun a balanced pace backwards, Molly continued across the street, Janeen's form now edging out of the alley.

"Hooper," she informed. "My name's Molly Hooper."

It wasn't until Janeen had slipped the jeans on herself, minutes later - they were slightly baggy, but better than nothing - that she repeated the name the drunk woman had given her.

"Molly Hooper."

Something in the back of Janeen's brain stirred, alerting her that this name was significant in some way. But she couldn't think why.

Only when her legs began warming up again did she have the answer.

"Sherlock's Molly Hooper," she voiced aloud curiously. "I just met Sherlock's Molly."

()()()()()()()()()

Molly hadn't even been meandering down the side walk for a full ten minutes before she attracted attention.

"Alright, what's this, then?" the man spoke gruffly, pushing himself off his car. "You drunk?"

His voice sounded firm and official. But Molly was too tired to deal with men asking her questions. So, she promptly strolled past him.

"Get back here, girly. Public intoxication is against the law."

She didn't know what sort of unfortunate event occurred to ever make him adopt the word 'girly' into his vocabulary, but Molly found that she wanted nothing to do with this man. She quickened her steps, attempting to remind herself of the directions Janeen had given her.

"If you are intoxicated, I will arrest you!"

_Police man. He's a police man._

"I haven't done anything wrong!" she hollered back, continuing her march forward.

"You're indecent!" the man threatened, tone getting sterner. "Public exposure and intoxication are two felonies. So help me God, girly, I could arrest you where you stand."

"I'm not a gi-girly!"

"Are you sassing me? You think you can sass me? I'll make you regret it and then some. Now stop where you are and show me some identification."

Molly ignored him, suddenly wondering if she'd perhaps went a block too far. Because the only recognizable landmark she could find was the McDonald's golden arches.

"Girly, you stop right there!"

He was hustling after her, Molly realized. And this only aggravated her further. Couldn't he leave the poor, defenseless, half-naked woman alone? Honestly.

"Damn it, you stop this instant! I am an officer of the law. You will obey me, _bitch_."

Unable to hold her tongue any longer, Molly spun around, briefly becoming disoriented. But her words were loud and clear and very much ones she would later come to cringe at upon recalling.

"Fuck the law," she declared, uncertain as to why these words felt empowering, "and fuck the police!"

Molly surmised she passed out some time between the grumpy officer dragging her over to his police car and the ride to New Scotland Yard. Which served as a bonus, really. Not the being arrested part. Her handcuffs were rather uncomfortable. But being led to a safe place where she could sleep her drunken state off.

()()()()()()()()()

Lestrade rubbed at his eyes wearily, fingers itching to take a sip of coffee.

_Empty_, he reminded himself. _And I've been too bleedin' lazy to get up and refill it._

Dropping the finance records he'd been glaring at for the past hour and a half, he lifted himself up and grabbed his mug. Whenever a seemingly simple case like this stumped him, he found it helped to take a walk and get his mind off things for a while. Often more times than not, he was overthinking the evidence before him. And in this particular case in which the owner of a salon was murdered over unpaid debts that helped start the business in the first place, he knew it was only a matter of time before he rewired his brain to look at the necessary numbers. Eventually, something wouldn't add up and when it didn't, a name would reveal itself.

He yawned openly as he entered the precinct, numbly wondering who else was still around at these hours. Perhaps he could convince them to switch cases so he could have a different point of view for what it was he couldn't yet pick out.

"Oi, Lestrade, will ya help me out? I'm bringing one in from the streets and I want a mug shot, finger prints, and a nice cozy cell for this girly."

Halting in his steps, Lestrade tiredly took in Officer Falley, eyes momentarily neglecting the petit woman he struggled to keep up.

"What for?"

"Walking around the streets in nothing but knickers and a sweatshirt. Completely hammered, might I add."

Lestrade sighed, feeling himself grow even wearier.

"Just let her go. Probably trying to be responsible and not drive from a night at the pub."

"Not a chance," Falley argued angrily. "This one told me off and resisted arrest. She's broken the law."

Lestrade thought anyone would break the law were they pursued by the slightly overweight, rigid man. His idea of a crime included swearing if a football match didn't go your way. Most of his arrests were either misdemeanors or misunderstandings.

Unfortunately, Falley didn't appear to be going anywhere and Lestrade didn't want to have his ass handed to him for not cooperating with the officer. Who happened to be good friends with his own boss.

"Fine," he grumbled, moving towards him, "but I really think she was just-."

Lestrade froze in place, eyes soaking in the woman barely standing on her feet.

"Molly?"

"Know her, then?" Falley barked, eying the pathologist in disdain.

The woman herself came to for a few seconds. At least enough to lethargically open her eyes and take in not only her surroundings, but the man currently gaping at her.

"Greg!" she expressed happily. "Th-this arse arr-arrested me for attempting to come here be-because I was lost. He also groped me after pu-pushing me into the back of h-his car. Don't think I did-didn't feel that!"

Falley turned a sickening shade of red, but before he could take his anger out on Molly, Lestrade intervened, tugging the woman out of his grip.

"Oi, Les-."

"Back off and let me handle this. She's a friend and she's done nothing wrong."

Molly leaned into Lestrade's side, head resting contentedly on his chest.

"Yo-you tell him, Greg," she approved.

"Don't care if she's the fucking Queen of England. That girly's spending the night in a cell," Falley roared, face getting redder.

Lestrade placed a comforting arm around her, relieved she no longer flinched at his touch.

"Lock her up, Lestrade, or I'm letting the Chief Superintendent hear all about this!" Falley continued to threaten, having the audacity to wag one of the index fingers he had indeed felt Molly up with.

Opening his mouth, Lestrade looked down at the hand cuffed woman currently seeking refuge in his hold.

"I-Molly, I'm sorry."

"S'okay," Molly assured, looking up at the DI through narrowed lids, "I can handle it. Just really t-tired. C-cell's got a bed, right?"

"Of course."

She grinned like a child on Christmas.

"T-tuck me in, Greg? I _don't_ trust that groping bastard."

"Oi!"

Molly jumped.

"Is he still here?" she whispered.

Attempting not to smile at her innocence, he slowly ushered her with him, discarding his empty mug on a nearby desk. There were some matters more important than retrieving a steaming cup of coffee. Making sure Molly was safe and out of Falley's groping grasp, happened to be number one on that list.

()()()()()()()()()

Sherlock was in the middle of watching yet another infomercial at nearly two in the morning, scoffing at the idiots responsible for the manufacturement of such useless products, when his mobile buzzed.

Curious as to what was urgent enough to keep him from his precious sleep (not that he actually participated in it), Sherlock grabbed the device, lazily opening the text.

Not even a full second later and his hand was groping violently for a coat as the message replayed over and over in his mind palace.

_Molly's been arrested. Public intoxication. She's not wearing any trousers. Come with bail._

_- Lestrade_

* * *

**Drunk Molly was so unbelievably fun to write. And Falley, the police officer, is actually based off of one I've had the displeasure of seeing in my town. It will be an interesting morning as Molly begins to remember what she's done. Oh, and I did have an image in mind for Noah. He's a footballer named Gerard Pique. Elvis hair was me making it up. Let me know your thoughts in a review!**


	4. The Ache We Bury

**Terribly sorry it's taken me so long to update. But I do have my very first laptop coming this week so hopefully that will make for more convenient writing and quicker updates. Thank you deeply for your reviews on last chapter, especially since I went out on a limb with reckless Molly. I assure you that she is grounded this chapter. Actually, it started out light and humorous, but with the addition of a certain someone (non-subtle cough), it got a bit angsty. Well, for me at least. Also, to my embarrassment (I'm from America, damn it), I had used the wrong terminology in the last chapter regarding Molly's lack of legwear. Translate the word 'pants' from America to the UK and it means underwear. I thank the reviewer who pointed that out as this next chapter would have been awfully odd to read. Either way, I do hope you enjoy it!**

* * *

**Chapter 4 - The Ache We Bury**

"I...asked you to...tuck me _in_?" Molly sounded out.

Greg threw her a sheepish smile, shifting slightly against the bars he leaned back on.

"In the most platonic of manners, yes. You were relieved to see a familiar face and I would have done anything to make you feel a little less...imprisoned."

"Oh...my...God," the pathologist quietly moaned, hands hiding her flushed face. "I'm so sorry."

"Nothing to be embarrassed about. Certainly not the worst request asked out of me."

He smiled at this, but Molly only shook her head, staring down at her legs.

Which oddly enough, bore no fabric.

"Happen to know how I lost my jeans by any chance?" she requested.

"Was hoping you could tell me that. You weren't...attacked, were you?"

"Even if I was, I can't remember."

"There'd be physical markings if you were. Worst I think that happened was a bit of stumbling about in central London at two in the morning."

She tried not to cringe at this, but failed.

"This...Falley fellow...is he going to file a complaint?" she redirected.

"It's a misdemeanor, not even that," he assured. "You're free to leave whenever you want. Bail's been paid already. I was just waiting until you woke up and understood your situation, to tell you."

Molly stayed glued to her spot, suddenly not wanting to face the world as fearlessly as she'd done so last night.

Actually, she'd be quite content to stay in the jail cell for a little longer. Because from what Greg had pieced together and the few memories she was able to recall, her actions had been just a bit more extravagant than she intended.

In the beginning, as Greg related what had occurred to land her in a jail cell at New Scotland Yard, Molly had been mortified. And considering she cut up dead people for a living, this was quite the statement.

Combined with the bits she remembered - wanting to steal a car, cursing out an officer of the law - she was sure she never wanted to show her face again in public. Not only did this border on the crazy, but personally, it'd been completely irresponsible.

But rather than wallow, as she sort of expected herself to do, Molly ended up venturing down a different emotional root.

Yes, she was still embarrassed about her misadventure. Her missing trousers mystery might haunt a few of her dreams.

However, she'd done what she set out to do in the first place. Make a memory and have fun.

Granted, she couldn't remember all of said memory. But she knew enough that she had felt exhilarated last night. Alive. Unlike herself and more like the person she had planned on being, but was too afraid to take the plunge.

Plus, she wasn't in her lab, working over a cadaver and thus what she'd done, couldn't be considered unprofessional. She'd had fun on her own time.

Though, she couldn't blame herself for thinking her actions unprofessional. It just showed how much of her work mindset really carried over into her personal life.

Depressing matter, but something she was hoping to quickly change.

Tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, Molly moved to stand, using the mattress as support.

Simultaneously, her head felt like it was splitting in two while her legs wobbled a bit.

"Need any help?"

"No, I've got it," she smiled, extending her arms. "Though, I'd really appreciate something I could wear on my way out so every officer doesn't see me in my knickers."

Greg chuckled, nodding understandingly. Though, she dearly hoped it wasn't from any personal experience.

"Be right back, then."

As he departed, Molly made tiny steps over to a cell wall, leaning herself against it.

"Well, guess I lived for once."

This sentiment echoed back to her and she couldn't help but wince slightly at the pounding in her skull.

Hopefully, Cassie fared better than she did.

When Lestrade had recounted her adventure last night, she asked about Cassie, hoping she'd gotten somewhere safe as well. Though the woman could hold her own, she was still younger by two years and in that regard, Molly felt responsible for her. Especially when it'd been her brilliant plan to hijack a car.

He hadn't heard anything yet, but promised to get in contact with her should she be seen in a similar position of confusion.

In the short minutes it took Greg to return, Molly found herself perking up a bit. It felt so much nicer to not keep scolding herself for her actions when she remembered that occurences like she'd had, were normal. She'd just been so wrapped up in work, wrapped up in her emotions, that she forgot the sort of misadventures people got into. Overdue, really, in her case.

"Hope these fit," Greg offered, slipping inside the cell, hand extending the navy blue sweatpants. "They're extras from a storage room officers go when they need a change of clothes."

She accepted them gratefully, but paused with them in her grip. Something in the back of her head, a memory, possibly, stirred at Greg's action.

But when it didn't come to her in a minute, she left it alone, sliding the warm fabric up to her waist.

Faintly, she thought how relieving it was that Greg happened to be such a good friend. Otherwise, standing before him without any trousers might have just caused her to never want to make eye contact with him again.

"Feeling better?"

"Heads killing me, but other than that, yes," she revealed, grinning. "I want to thank you, Greg, for making sure I was safe last night. A bit of a shock, I know, but this won't be happening again. I owe you."

"Don't worry about it. You were a friend and it was my job," he brushed off. "Though, I do want to have a talk with you. Some other day, maybe, but soon."

She didn't bother playing dumb regarding the topic. She owed him that much.

"I'm sorry I lied, but at the time, it was necessary. And-."

"Another time," he repeated. "Right now, someone wants a word with you. Been wanting one nearly all morning, but I thought it better you were in a more cohesive state of mind. Need your wits to keep up with him."

"Greg," she pressed slowly, head beginning to ache from something other than her hangover, "you didn't call...him. Please tell me you didn't call-."

"He may be an arse at times, but I hold by my reasoning that he cares more about you than he shows. Plus, thought you might want to thank Sherlock for paying your bail."

Her retort was cut short as Greg backed out of the cell, and in place, entered Sherlock.

"Ah...damn," she muttered, thankful her legs were at least clothed.

"Lestrade informed me you had quite the...expedition last night," he began coolly.

His immediate dive into the conversation alerted her that he might have been rehearsing what to say for quite a while.

"Shouldn't have informed you in the first place, but yes. Thank you for paying my bail. Next time, though, you don't have to get involved. You don't owe me any favors."

It felt harsh to say, but Sherlock's presence did nothing but annoy her at the moment. Knowing that Lestrade thought something still existed between them, made it even worse.

"What favors could I possibly still owe you?"

And this is exactly why she had to be harsh with him. His own responses could tear a lesser woman to shreds.

"None," she confirmed tightly. "Now, if you'd excuse me-."

"-we're not finished."

His lack of motion from the entrance to her cell, coined with his demanding statement, only further incensed her.

But, she kept reminding herself that he had paid for her bail. For whatever reason.

At least she could show him the courtesy to listen.

"Make it quick."

"Have somewhere to be?"

"None of your concern."

He narrowed his eyes at this, but otherwise, appeared unruffled.

"Lestrade told me he found you without trousers."

"So he did."

"Why?"

"When I find out, I'll make sure you're the first to know."

"Is the sarcasm necessary?"

"Is this conversation?" she countered tiredly, running a hand through her hair. "Sherlock, please, just let me go home. I've already expressed my thanks. That was very...thoughtful of you. Now, let me go and get some sleep."

She made to move forward, but her steps faltered when he stayed rooted in the same spot.

With a sigh, she tried swerving around him, but he easily blocked the entrance by moving with her, half of his mass now in place of her way out.

"I swear you are _such_ a child at times."

"Most people tend to agree. And yet, you were in love with me for years. Endearing, but I do hope you don't make it a habit of falling in love with children."

Molly's hand jerked, wanting in that moment to do nothing but slap that building smirk from his face.

However, she refrained.

Bail, she reminded herself. He'd paid for her bail.

"Not anymore," she commented wryly. "I've moved on to men."

"And a man allows his girlfriend to stumble drunkenly around the city at one in the morning, without thought of what could happen to her? Hardly a man," he dismissed swiftly, stepping toward her. "Ending the relationship now might possibly save your head from making anymore stupid and irresponsible decisions."

She didn't know how she kept her temper in check with that one. But, Christ was he pushing it.

Her level headedness might also have been because he had a point.

In her head, she recalled Noah being as hammered as she'd been. Not able to make cognitive decisions, much less stay upright for long. Her justification for his sending her out thoughtlessly, had been that he'd been far too drunk to convince her it was a bad idea.

However, were the positions reversed, she believed she'd have talked him out of it. Some part of her would have at least sensed the potential threat of wandering London at such late hours, drunk and vulnerable, and gotten him into a bed.

Then again, she hadn't been in Noah's mindset at the time. Who knew how much common sense he still retained?

Either way, she blamed herself more than she blamed him. And she certainly wasn't going to let Sherlock blame the _both_ of them.

"You see my point, don't you?" he observed.

"I was drunk, so was he. No one was in their right mind to make good decisions. He's probably at my flat, worried sick, if he hasn't called the Yard already. As to my irresponsibility...well, I really don't think that's any of your business. Now, this is the last time I'm asking nicely. Please, get out of my way, Sherlock."

"Are you aware of what sort of person you're turning into?"

She hadn't noticed just how close he now was to her and she backed away, not out of anxiety, but frustration.

"Are you aware that you have a dreadful time letting go of your distractions? Honestly, why are you still intruding in my life when we both know you never had a permanent place in it? I'm sick of it, Sherlock. Sick of having to put up with your moodiness and insults just because you think you know better. In this case, you don't. How could you possibly know my life, my desires and wants, better than me? And don't go on about living with me for a year. You saw a routine, not my inner thoughts. You saw the Molly I forced myself to be in your presence, nothing more. I have a voice and a thirst for adventure and sometimes, I like to get wasted and take my bloody trousers off!" she roared, voice having amplified in the cell. "If you have a problem with that, tell someone who gives a damn. Because I don't and I haven't for awhile."

His expression fell, and she detected that same hint of surprise she'd seen in the lab when she told him off then. And beneath that...well, she couldn't quite put her finger on it. What it made her want to do, naturally, was not only apologize, but wish she would have kept her mouth closed.

But his constant surprise at what she had to say, at the truth of how he'd made her feel, only spurred on that need to keep holding her own. If he hadn't known in the first place, then the words needed to be said.

Rather than continue analyzing him, Molly decided on squeezing through the small gap of freedom made between his shoulder and the wall cell.

Sherlock let her go without a word, but he made no move to accommodate her attempt at squeezing through the narrow gap. Which made it slightly uncomfortable as she had to exit it sideways and her entire frame brushed across his arm.

When she finally got her entire body out of the cell in one piece, Sherlock spoke up. Coldly, but it seemed with intent.

"Why didn't you inform me sooner of my behavior towards you?"

"You'd just brush it off and assure me you were like that towards everyone. Not exactly a subject I wanted to breach, especially since your cases were usually top priority. Anyway, I had hoped you'd pick up on it without me telling you, brilliant detective that you are. It was there, in flashes. Just needed a closer look is all."

He sniffed at this, but she didn't bother dissecting it.

"Though, I'm not sure how you would have responded even if you had known."

"Allow me make it up to you."

She could sense his eyes were on her now. But his request only made her all the more weary. It was nice, she thought, that he might be trying.

However, she had all but moved on. And as sad as it was to admit, some things simply weren't worth the trip back just to be salvaged.

Plus, his dedication remained to be seen. He was needed constantly and she doubted his attention could be spared even for a night just to make it up to her.

She didn't consider herself selfish in this regard, but realistic. A few soothing words and compliments weren't going to patch up their relationship this time around. And she would rather see him at work on an important case than attempt blindly to cure something she'd already gotten over.

By her silence, it appeared Sherlock also reached this conclusion.

She supposed he needed her to confirm it audibly, however.

"There's nothing to make up," she confessed gently. "You are you and I am me. Having the relationship we did, wasn't meant to last forever. That constant...imbalance."

At his muteness, she continued, feeling equal amounts relieved and pained in her chest area. While it felt like a great weight was being lifted away, it didn't ascend without discomfort.

"I want to apologize, Sherlock, if I ever made you uncomfortable with my affections. Especially...that night," she announced awkwardly. "But you have to know that it would have killed me to keep holding it in. At least now I'm completely sure that there wasn't a chance of reciprocation. And that's what has allowed me to move on so easily. We can still have a working relationship, if you want. Stop by Bart's and I'll help you the best I can. But in order to have that and assure your ability to do your job, our friendship can never be hung in that imbalance ever again. Which means that I'll be closing parts of myself to you that may have once been open, including my personal life."

She doubted he'd been prepared for the speech, but he replied as if he were.

"Understood."

"Thank you," she expressed, turning to absorb him. "You know, in a way, this is just as much a convenience for you as it is for me."

"Of course."

His voice may have sounded detached, but his gaze was piercing. Unreadable, but on her with such intensity that she was surprised she didn't combust.

"See you around, then?" she finished.

Although their conversation had landed into territory she hadn't planned on trekking, Molly couldn't say the result was all that awful. At least the tension and near pugnacity having recently developed between them, could simmer for awhile. And with his understanding and acceptance of her speech, she felt she could finally do her job properly for once by helping him solve crimes without carrying a burdening affection for him on the side.

"Plan on it."

She assumed he meant the morgue so she sent him a nod and soft smile before swaying cautiously to the precinct doors.

_Well, that wasn't so difficult._

Upon mulling over this thought, Molly felt unease rather than excitement. Since when were things ever not difficult with Sherlock?

But for her sake, she submerged this musing. They both had what they needed. Where was the problem?

()()()()()()()()()

"I don't ask for it much, but is there any chance you could ever forgive me for being such a shitty boyfriend?"

Molly's eyes softened while one hand grabbed onto his own.

"Don't ever let me do it again and I will."

It seemed fair enough and his presence in the precinct cleared up a lot of the uncertainty she'd felt towards his lax action. Everyone was drunk and stupid at one point. It'd be unfair to criticize him when she'd been equally reckless.

"Fair deal. Don't think I'll be touching the drinks for a while after this," he confirmed, pulling her into a deep hug. "I'm just glad you're safe."

She ignored her brain when it wondered if she'd be so quick to forgive him had something bad happened last night.

Noah must have noticed her stiffness because his hug grew tighter as his lips moved to her ear. He was entirely un-self conscious in his action and from a vantage point, their embrace probably looked rather intimate.

"I love you, Molly."

It was breathed just low enough for her alone to hear, but the remedy was immediate.

She relaxed into his hold and allowed herself to feel the full capacity of those three words, unaware of the figure watching them only for a moment, eyes narrowed darkly, jaw set uncomfortably rigid, and hands curled in the pockets of his coat, before stalking out of the precinct.

"Before I forget," she exclaimed, jumping out of his hold, "do you know what happened to Cassie by any chance? We split off, I think, because we were being chased."

"Sorry-."

"We're fine now and that's what matters. Has she gotten in contact with you?"

"Texted your mobile, then mine. Said she slept off the night on a fire escape."

While the news came as a great relief, Molly couldn't help but crack a smile.

"What a night," she beamed.

"But how soon are you going to forget it?" he pointed out.

"When I remember it all, I'll let you know."

()()()()()()()()()

Only when she had taken a forty minute shower inside her flat and fed Toby, did Molly remember she had a shift. Last night, she planned on calling in sick, but it being one o'clock in the afternoon already (her shift started at seven, bright and early), she doubted her absence could pass as her being ill.

But upon calling Bart's, more specifically, Mike to apologize profusely for her tardiness (at this point, saying she was sick would be more of an insult to him than admitting the truth), she got a rather unexpected surprise.

"Don't you even think about coming in today," Mike argued. "Not until that stomach flu is out of your system."

She paused, having been ready to explain a censored version of what led to her not showing up at seven, but decided to work with the stomach flu she apparently had already.

"Um...yes. The flu. Did Noah inform you?"

It was the only person she could think of who might cover for her and knew what sort of hell she raised the night before.

"No, it was Sherlock. Texted me around six this morning, explaining your condition and that you weren't able to talk. Good man, that Holmes. Glad you got someone like that watching out for you."

"Yes," Molly agreed, frowning, "I am. I'll try to make it in tomorrow-."

"Nonsense. Take the next three days off, if you need. Need you at your full strength. Rest up, Molly. And only come in when you're ready."

"Okay. Thank you."

When the call ended, Molly slumped back on her couch, staring ahead at her wall, mobile still clutched in her hand.

_Well, that was nice of him. _

She nodded her head in response to the thought, ignoring the miniscule sliver of affection still remaining for the consulting detective, that grew, decidedly, just a little bit wider.

* * *

**Next chapter will have some John POV. He's like the neutralizer between the two and I purposely kind of want to leave what Sherlock is feeling exactly, in the dark. John somehow manages to skim the surface of his friend. Plus, Janeen will be making a brief appearance. Hope you enjoyed all that and let me know your thoughts in a review!**


	5. The Labyrinth of Sentiment

**As is customary, I'd like to thank everyone who has reviewed thus far as well as last chapter. It's like a dance going on between these two and the more Molly drifts into independence, the more attachment Sherlock seems to seek from her, or at least reveal that he's not completely immune to her absence. Most of your perceptions of Noah are fun to read because in one way or another, we're committed to the Sherlolly pairing. So, Molly being with anyone else and vice versa, just seems WRONG. But as a reviewer pointed out, in his own way, Noah is good for her. And that's ultimately a reality of life. We don't know the underlying relationship between two individuals that seemingly aren't meant to be or are unusual together. Noah has his faults, but so does Sherlock - enough that Molly snapped out of her adoration of him because Noah had something Sherlock didn't. Let's see what happens. Enjoy! **

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**Chapter 5 - The Labyrinth of Sentiment**

"Get out! She was actually in her knickers?"

"That's what Davis said."

"Sure it's Hooper? The shy thing that cuts up bodies at Bart's?"

"Very same. I heard it from Davis who heard it from Falley. He's the one that arrested her."

"What'd possess her to do something like that? I mean yeah, everyone's got a life, but she's already in her thirties. Shouldn't she be settling down with a husband and kids?"

"Oh come on. She butchers dead bodies for a living. Who'd want to settle down with that?"

Donovan nodded in agreement, but upon catching John's eye, quickly looked away.

"Are we quite finished?" Sherlock drawled loudly, snapping everyone's attention his way.

He was hovering over the most recent victim of a slew of kidnappings and killings - a female no older than twenty five. Her jugular had been sliced open with a steel blade and Sherlock was observing the angle as well as the direction the blood had splattered in after being released from the neck, mumbling fervently every so often.

John tagged along only after Sherlock's incessant nattering, albeit reluctantly (he was celebrating eight months with Mary, or was supposed to, at least, later in the evening), and while he had done his best to shift his mind into one of medical analyzation upon taking in their victim, Donovan and Anderson's conversation had managed to partially engross his attention.

This was the first he was hearing about Molly's night out and to say it came as a shock would be a _severe_ understatement. He wouldn't think in a million years that the pathologist who stuttered and shook in Sherlock's presence just a year prior, would be capable of being arrested in her knickers due to public intoxication. It was incredibly unreal of her.

Then again, he had to remind himself that she was carrying a new attitude these days, a new approach to life. He had no right to judge her for wanting to make the most out it. Especially in the midst of recovering from a near death experience. Hadn't he done roughly the same thing after returning from Afghanistan and then partnering up with Sherlock for cases?

As he followed along with the conversation, tuning back into Sherlock's murmurs whenever their voices grew too hushed, John had found himself wondering if the detective knew about Molly's night out prior to the current discussion. From the excitement in Anderson's voice, the event sounded recent. No more than a week. And if they were still speaking of it so freshly, than perhaps the story was just beginning to get around. Two or three nights ago, tops.

The blabbering officers had, of course, made the mistake of forgetting that Sherlock could multi-task. And it came as no surprise, especially when one considered the topic, that he severed their chatter almost immediately, not without a hint of dangerous bite in his tone.

All would have been well on normal occasion, but Anderson decided today would be another day to make a complete arse out of himself.

At this point John dearly wished he had some sort of pastry and a nice cup of tea as well as a lounge chair. Because by the outrage on Anderson's features, it looked like an entertaining battle of words was on its way.

"Don't want to hear us gossip, then don't listen," Anderson pointed out loudly. "Simple as that. No one wants you eavesdropping."

"Hardly eavesdropping when your nasally voice can be heard from a hundred meters in each direction," Sherlock remarked coolly, gazing through his magnification glass.

"Figures you'd defend her. You psychotic types stick together, don't ya?"

John wanted to intervene, to stabilize the sparring mood, but he knew this wasn't his conversation to handle. When it came to Anderson, Sherlock almost seemed delighted in putting the man in his place by a few cleverly chosen words.

So, with a clamped mouth, John listened on, suddenly finding solace in observing the victim.

"Indeed," the detective agreed, pocketing the tool. "Should you ever encounter the two of us one night, your likelihood of survival would be unsurprisingly slim."

"Did you just threaten me?"

Anderson's face turned a flushed red while Donovan looked like she was fighting back a headache. Her attempts at arguing with Sherlock had ceased a good few months ago and now, she simply looked weary.

"Merely repeating the _gossip_ I've heard," Sherlock assured lazily, tilting his head as one gloved hand trailed past the wound again. "Though, it has a nice ring to it, doesn't it? Miss Hooper and I would make quite the psychotic pair."

Hiding his grin, John ignored the urge to turn around again and soak in Anderson's reaction. Poor sod seemed to never learn.

"Solved it," Sherlock announced seconds later, shooting up to his feet and throwing the blogger a satisfied smile.

"You've only been here-."

"Anderson, do work on your comprehension skills. They are lacking sorely and there's no need for Miss Donovan to be more embarrassed in your presence than usual."

With that, Sherlock sped past the incensed man and out the warehouse door, shoulders back and stride confident.

John followed after, but not before hearing a stream of curses fall from the forensic man's lips.

"That was impressive," he blurted once they'd reached the city streets.

"It was stupid of me to assume the pattern the killer cut in, was intentional," Sherlock relayed, seemingly content with walking rather than hailing a cab. "Too sloppy. Most likely has involuntary muscle spasms in his hand, made worse by his excitement when he finally gets to cut the jugular. Tetany, maybe. Possible epileptic. Read Lestrade's notes?"

"Do you?"

"Not a normal habit of mine, but Lestrade does pick up on important things once in a great while. All the victims frequented the same night club whose operator has been known to be handsy with the females. Most likely, it's his condition, made intolerable when his testosterone levels are unusually high. What makes them high? Women. Higher than that? Murder. Lestrade's on his way to pick the man up."

"How'd you-."

"While Anderson was busy thinking of new ways to insult me, I sent Lestrade a text. Really, John, what were you more involved in?"

"Your insults," he admitted honestly. "That's what I meant by impressive, though the case too."

"I always yell at Anderson. You rarely bat an eye at it," the detective commented.

"True. But you've never defended Molly before."

"How does that pertain to anything?"

He sounded just the tiniest bit defensive, but his head was inclined marginally in his direction, waiting for an answer.

"Means you're not the emotionless prick I thought you were a few days ago. Always manage to surprise me, Sherlock. I'll give you that. Plus, I'd say I'm less angry at you now."

At this, Sherlock paused in place, eyebrows raised.

"You were angry at me?"

John restrained the urge to roll his eyes.

"You really didn't notice?"

"Just thought you were being unreasonably moody again about my sneaking smokes."

"That too," the blogger agreed. "But I didn't particularly condone your treatment of Molly."

"Noted."

At his quick answer, John wanted to continue the conversation. He needed to know if Sherlock had yet grasped the seriousness of losing Molly as a friend.

But, his words were interrupted by a high pitched, sharp whistle.

The duo had just passed an aging alleyway between a bakery and drug store and upon detecting the area to be where the whistle had sounded from, each man turned their heads towards the noise.

In the mouth of the alley hovered a malnourished, teenage girl, eyes focused on them

An awkward few seconds passed by in which neither party made a move while pedestrians rushed by. And after a full minute, John went to migrate back into the city crowd, thinking perhaps she'd been searching for someone else.

But unexpectedly, Sherlock veered off toward the girl, hardly paying any mind to those he bumped into.

The blogger followed suit, apologizing for his friend, nearly forgetting all about Sherlock's Homeless Network.

Hopefully, it wasn't another case. If he got back to his flat within a half hour, his date with Mary could still be salvaged.

"Getting my attention in a public area? Not the wisest idea, Janeen," Sherlock scolded once they reached her.

"Been trying to catch you all day," she defended, ushering them further from the street. "Not my fault you can't take a hint."

"Must be important if you're seeking me out. You don't generally respond well to my jobs."

"If you asked for normal things, I might. Following murderers and spying on the mob, aren't that. But all that's beside the point, isn't it? Even though I still haven't forgiven you for the Camden incident."

"You were fine."

"I was ambushed," she corrected tightly, snapping her gaze toward the man after stopping beside a dumpster.

"You got away."

"After nearly biting the bastard's fingers off. Accept the fact that you misled me about how dangerous he was."

"You forget that your bite marks were how I identified him. However in danger you might have felt, I trusted you to get out of it in one piece. And you even helped solve a case. Already more impressive than most of London's police force."

"Complimenting is not your strong suit," she observed wryly.

"You've survived worse."

She either had nothing to say to this, or simply didn't want to pursue the topic. Either way, she redirected the conversation.

"Watson, is it?" she asked, shifting her narrowed gaze to him.

"Oh, um, yes. Sorry, who are you?"

"Janeen. Sometimes, a part of Sherlock's network," she informed non-committingly. "You should be more careful of the path you choose when leaving your bank. You tend to stray to the more desolate areas rather than public."

"You've followed me?"

"Seen you around the city a few times. Knew who you were, of course."

"Right...I'll work on being more aware. Don't even notice it hal-."

"If I wanted to listen to mundane conversation, I'd have asked Mrs. Hudson about her sister. Now, is there something important you have to tell me?" Sherlock demanded.

"Ever subtle," she deadpanned. "Just wanted to return something back to a friend of yours."

John watched curiously as Janeen crouched down, hands pawing underneath the dumpster.

Seconds later and she retrieved a pair of folded blue jeans.

"Molly Hooper lent them to me," she explained upon taking in their puzzled stares. "Three nights ago. She was hammered beyond belief, had no idea what part of the city she was in, but still had the decency to offer me something warm to wear. My last pair of trousers were stolen and I'd only been in pajama shorts at the time. Tell her thank you. Nicest thing someone's done for me in a long while. Thought you better get her clothes rather than the police."

Catching Sherlock's reaction out of the corner of his eye, John was intrigued to find the detective speechless, jaw inched open.

Sure, he still kept composure. As if this information didn't faze him.

But John knew better.

This selfless act was pure Molly, even when in a drunken state. And if there was anything John knew Sherlock admired about her, it was her infinite kindness towards others. It's what saved his own life.

What the pathologist had done three nights ago would undoubtedly make an impression on Sherlock in a positive way, even if he tried denying it.

"I'll inform her," he finally announced, accepting the jeans.

"Did she make it to the Yard okay?"

"In one way or the other, yes."

"That's a relief," Janeen admitted, shoulders relaxing. "She's far more interesting than you described. Especially when intoxicated. No wonder you're smitten."

In a flash, Sherlock's voice dropped into subarctic temperatures while his expression turned stony.

"I am _NOT_ smitten."

Janeen only shrugged off his coldness, indicating that like John, she'd gotten used to it long ago.

"Call it whatever you want. But you do realize that whenever you talk about her, you refer to her as _your _pathologist. That's a possessive pronoun, Sherlock. And knowing your ego, it's safe to assume you don't enjoy sharing."

Sherlock's mood only grew darker.

John, on the other hand, was silently relieved with finally getting a bit of insight on his friend's feelings toward Molly. And though it was unexpected that he'd confide them to a teenage girl, it still didn't change the fact that his feelings and possible sentiment ran deeper than he let on.

Wisely, however, he stayed silent. Sherlock's irritation was obvious and he didn't need it directed at him.

"If you speak a word to anyone-."

"Believe it or not, Sherlock, most of the topics you go on about aren't all that interesting," Janeen assured. "Your conversations are safe with me. You know the debt I owe you."

This seemed to ease him slightly.

"Debt?"

Janeen glanced at him, almost as if she forgot he was there.

"Sorry," John apologized. "Didn't mean to pry."

"Sherlock saved my life. Least I can do is make his a little bit easier," she shrugged off.

John nodded, not necessarily needing the details. He imagined a lot of people owed Sherlock a debt. How they went about, paying those debts off, weren't really his business.

"Don't you have a dinner with Mary tonight?" Sherlock inquired, spinning toward him.

Caught off guard by the switch in topic, John said, "Yes. Not going to suddenly need me tonight, are you? And by that, I mean don't text unless you're dying."

"What about-?"

"Boredom doesn't count," John stated firmly.

"You still have glaring loopholes in your statement, but for your sake, I won't point them out to you. Have a pleasant evening."

"Are you-?"

"Have some matters to discuss with Janeen here. Goodbye."

With that, Sherlock strolled past both of them, venturing further into the alley.

"Nice meeting you then."

"Likewise," she acknowledged quickly before jogging after the man.

As he watched the duo integrate further into the concrete labyrinth, he found himself wondering about the nature of their conversation. Was it possible Molly would be a reoccurring topic?

But he knew not to pursue the matter. Sherlock would either choose to tell him or he wouldn't.

Though, he bet strongly on the latter.

Bright side of the last few minutes, at least? His night was free. And to top that off, John was almost entirely sure, though he wouldn't mind discussing it with Mary a little further, that Sherlock cared deeply for Molly in his own, bizarre way. That had to mean something, right?

()()()()()()()()()

"I need a favor."

"I thought as much," Janeen accepted once out of earshot, crossing her arms. "What's this going to require? I'm relocating to another city if you mention the mob."

Sherlock raised his chin at this, unwilling to meet her eyes.

"I should hope to never put you in that much danger again."

"See, why couldn't you have been this nice when Watson was around?

"That was honesty, not compassion."

"Just get on with your favor. I may owe you, but you're still an arse when you want to be."

The detective's eyes shifted to the busy streets, eyeing them purposefully.

"Have you heard news about a man named Pete Morris?"

"Sounds famliar," Janeen recounted, noting his serious demeanor. "Want me to find him?"

"The issue is not finding him. He was arrested nearly a week ago."

"Is he innocent, then?"

At this, Sherlock's jaw tightened and she briefly wished she hadn't asked. Just by the physical reaction, she knew the incarcerated man to not be in good graces with the detective.

However, she wasn't going to blame herself for it. It took a remarkable amount of questioning sometimes before determining Sherlock Holmes's intentions.

"Right, he's a bad man. But he's locked up. What's the problem?"

Sherlock slowly met her gaze, expression blank, yet eerily intense.

"Despite a charge of attempted murder and burglary, it would appear that Morris has a strong case going in his defense. His connections are impressive, considering his financial instability."

She was more assured now that it was all out disdain Sherlock carried for the man, if his tight, serious tone was anything to go by.

"There are certain places I cannot be seen at," the detective continued, hands clasped behind him. "Places that may draw the wrong type of attention towards me now that the media seems to feel the need to pamper and overexpose me all over again after my return. Scour these areas for information. I need witnesses and former victims from past crimes of his, to step forth as possible leverage. It is not clear whether the current testimony alone, no matter how solid, will hold up entirely."

"Shouldn't the Yard be working on this?"

"They aren't aware yet of Morris's connections. Or the angle his lawyers will play the jury. By the time they become aware, it will be too late to assemble more evidence."

"You know this how?"

"Hardly important."

"I need all the details, Sherlock," she pestered. "Just like you, the tiny details count."

He looked mildly annoyed, but pushed past it.

Apparently, this was a bigger deal than he was letting on.

"I casually viewed the notes to the case. Didn't take long to connect the dots. Anything more?"

"How long do I have?"

"Until trial, a full month. But my expectations are considerably higher. Two weeks is your deadline."

"What's Morris into?"

"Clarify."

"I mean...what's his game? You said he burglarized and then nearly murdered someone. That a common occurrence? Did he just get spooked and didn't think? Do you think he's murdered before? It'd help to know this. His victims might be slimmer if he's a murderer."

"My belief is he's been working his way up to murder for years now. Petty crimes here and there, progressively becoming more violent. This past encounter was to be his magnum opus. And by traditional criminal pattern, his last victim should very well be dead."

She forced herself not to shiver at the detached, cold voice he said this with. Though, it made her believe, without solid proof, that this particular favor was unusually personal to him.

On most cases, Sherlock sped through the information boredly, skimming over details and ignoring the ones he found insignificant to tell her. Which led to situations like the Camden incident.

This time, however, he took liberties to really explain the situation. And he was methodical. Unnervingly so.

It made Janeen wonder about the other half of the story he was keeping from her. The who, in particular, that was still alive after an attempt on their life. Because at this moment, Sherlock was going out of his way to make sure this person's testimony held up at trial. And it must be someone reasonably important if he was involving multiple people from the network to help them.

"Observe the reactions to your questions. Particularly in females," he added. "The more closed off they appear, the greater chance they know something. Precede with caution. While you are not my only individual assigned for this task, you will ultimately hold the most important information. And information is _always_ wanted. Stay in touch with me every three days."

Finding her curiosity piqued, Janeen slumped against the brick wall.

"He nearly murdered someone. What are the chances he'll be acquitted?"

"This is the same justice system that allowed Moriarty, who had all the evidence in world piled up against him, to walk free with more blood on his hands than he came in with. Putting our trust in the court system, in this case, would not be ideal."

"Then let's hope justice isn't really blind," she agreed, attempting to lighten up the mood. "Oakley park in Chiswick. Three days. Six sharp. Evening."

"That should suffice."

"Anything else I should know?"

"Nothing that would concern you."

"Alright," she nodded, partially relieved to finally put her time into something. "Tell Molly I said hello. And give her back the jeans."

"Of course I will. Is it not customary to return lost belongings to people?"

"Nothing is ever customary with you, Sherlock. Plus, knowing you like the poor girl, I can just see you holding on to the jeans until a time came where returning them would be more convenient for you, not her."

Rather than ushering out amusement like Janeen had hoped, Sherlock's features hardened.

"Whatever silly little fantasy you have playing out in your head regarding my relationship with Miss Hooper, do keep it to yourself. Because that's all it is. A silly fantasy."

"Fantasies are often spawned out of reality," she defended sternly, not willing to have her opinion disregarded so hastily.

"Fantasies are the product of a mind that does not have the strength to face reality," Sherlock dictated. "To base sound knowledge off them is idiotic."

"You would think that."

"I have no reason to think otherwise. Now, go and find me results."

Biting down on her retort, Janeen offered him a stiff nod, pushing off the wall and storming the opposite way. Sometimes, he couldn't be reasoned with even if the truth was glaring at him right in the face.

* * *

**I forgot to mention that I plan to wrap this story up within twelve or less chapters. Let's hope something changes between them by then. Let me know your thoughts in a review!**


	6. The Complexities of Chemistry

**Thank you to everyone who took the time to review last chapter. Every single one of you have something to contribute that not only churns out the next chapter, but causes me to write the way I do. So, again, thank you. Things sort of shift in this chapter, especially now that I've set the goal of twelve chapters or less for myself. I have a fear that I may be rushing things as a result, but Sherlock can't keep in all of his feelings forever. Especially when it's getting clear that he's feeling something deep for Molly who's drifting away. Again, I'm not writing from his POV because it's almost meant to be suspenseful and confusing as to what he's feeling. We can only hope his friends knock some sense into him. Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 6 - The Complexities of Chemistry**

"Molly?"

"Yes?"

"Will you get Albert Desland's fingers for me?"

"Ah, well...no, Sherlock," she replied gently, grimacing at the autopsy before her. "See, last time I checked, you have legs. Miraculous devices, those legs of ours. They're supposedly able to get you from one destination to another. Have yours stopped working by chance?"

She didn't have to look up from Haylee Brenden's open chest to know his eyes were suddenly focused on her. Intensely, as obvious by the sudden heat passing over her skin.

"I'll take your silence as a negative," she continued cheerily, brows furrowing when she finally noted the tell-tale charring of nicotine upon both sets of lungs. "They're in the freezer, if you've forgotten. Should be top left shelf seeing as they just came in."

After a bit of wordless glancing between herself and his microscope, Sherlock stiffly stood and made the trip to the freezer. Something Molly couldn't help but emit a small grin at as she worked on sewing Haylee back up. It was nice to be able to remind him that she had equally important work and thus couldn't always be bothered to wait on him hand and foot.

He'd entered the lab not even a full hour into her shift, mutely at first, studying her as she went over the medical history of her first body of the day. While she was aware he was in the room (initially at least), she had a difficult time tearing her gaze away from the chart because the text her eyes spanned over was horribly engrossing. Her victim, Jason Wilkes, had been a drug addict by age fifteen, steady alcoholic by twenty-one, and died at age twenty-eight all because he'd choked on a pistachio.

She quelled the urge to chuckle at the irony (it'd be utterly disrespectful as well), and instead, went over the procedural CPR lessons she knew by heart. It was always a fear of hers that she'd forget such a common procedure when the time to use it came, so refamiliarizing herself with it had been a bit of a personal soother.

When Sherlock finally cleared his throat five minutes later, clearly wanting to be acknowledged, Molly looked up, blinking rapidly because she'd nearly forgotten he was there.

As she expected, things were still a bit awkward between them. A full week had passed since their chat in her jail cell and while Sherlock appeared to be his usual aloof, intelligent self, she couldn't help but think something changed inside him. What it was, she hadn't the faintest idea. But his continuous, silent staring in her direction practically announced that she ask him about it.

Instead of doing so and possibly further promoting their air of awkwardness, she offered him his normal work space with an encouraging smile. It was meant to signify that their tumultuous past week was water over the bridge and that she fully supported his engagement into solving crimes.

And so, without a single word, he engaged himself with whatever case occupied his mind, arranging samples of hair or blood he'd manage to attain in his usual mysterious way, before observing the slides thoughtfully through a microscope. Only once did he speak to her, and that was minutes ago to ask her to fetch Desland's fingers for him.

She had been tempted, briefly, to give into his demand. He'd asked analytically, not mockingly. Whatever he was at work with, he was making progress.

But allowing him leniency in this new relationship they established would defeat the purpose of having agreed to it in the first place. While Sherlock wasn't by any stretch of the imagination exactly normal, he could, every so often, go fetch his experiments himself. She didn't think that all too unreasonable.

When noon finally hit a half hour later, Molly all but blew out a sigh of relief. The growing silence had been making her skin itch and she was thoroughly looking forward to a lunch break away from the lab.

Because there was no denying by now that the lack of speech between them wasn't somewhat disconcerting. It wasn't like before where they understood the other was deep at work, so the silence was actually a sign of prosperity.

No, this time around, the air was thick with a tension so noxious it made her want to cringe.

_God, I hope it's not always going to be like this. Maybe it's just seeing him today that's been strange. It'll take time to adjust._

Then, quite unexpectedly, Sherlock spoke up. About something that didn't regard his case, her autopsy, or anything of the professional manner.

"The defense lawyers will use your recent intoxication and stint in jail, against you."

Molly blessed herself for having such a steady hand, otherwise she was sure the needle would have plunged into the chest rather than skin.

"It was a misdemeanor. Hardly anything serious," she rebounded evenly, recalling Lestrade's words.

"Lawyers have the ability to turn a misdemeanor into the crime of the century. Do not delude yourself into thinking you will be sharing your encounter on the stand. Realistically, it will be more of an interrogation. I suggest you prepare yourself for it."

Unsure of what to say, Molly busied herself with finishing the stitches. Though, not without Sherlock's warning still fresh in her mind.

She had a slight suspicion that her night out might be recounted at trial, but to think there was a possibility she'd be slandered so critically that it would render her statement of what happened on the night of the burglary, as unsound, worried her dearly. She of course knew what happened, had been _fully_ sober on the night of meeting Morris.

And that's what was supposed to count, wasn't it?

But she'd watched enough legal dramas on the telly, even testified on the behalf of a few cases as a medical analyst to know how tricky and utterly ruthless lawyers could be. And while she wasn't quite ready to acknowledge it aloud, Molly knew Sherlock was right. It would be do well to prepare herself for what she'd be facing in three weeks if she wanted to maintain credibility.

"Has Greg talked to you about the case then?" she inquired casually, not particularly thrilled at the idea that the DI would go to Sherlock first about something pertaining to _her_ case.

"No."

"Then how'd you-."

She caught herself mid-sentence and firmly clamped her mouth shut. It wasn't often Sherlock answered her questions directly. If she continued on, there was a strong chance he'd avoid the issue, thus allowing her annoyance to flourish at his secretiveness.

Right now, she could handle being simply uncomfortable over being annoyed _and_ uncomfortable.

Thankfully, however, Sherlock was feeling a bit more forthcoming than usual.

"I've looked into it," he informed neutrally. "Should I have kept up my silence, Lestrade's warning would have been issued a week or two later."

Molly desperately wanted to look up and absorb the expression gracing his face, but she only had a few more weaves to go.

_This is good, right? He at least cares enough to warn me that this won't be such an easy process._

"Thank you," she quietly responded.

She decided at the last second not to pursue the who's, when, and how's of what Sherlock knew. He revealed what he deemed important and for now, she had to trust that this was for the best. Even if she had the feeling he was keeping other details away from her.

Minutes later, when the stitched up body had been properly stored away, Molly was scrubbing her hands at the sink, head casted down, mind a million miles away. A common occurrence as of late, it seemed.

Her musings were severed when Sherlock addressed her again, voice indicating him to be directly behind her.

"Are you eating out for lunch?"

Slowly turning off the faucet, Molly mustered up a smile and faced him.

"Yes."

She tried not to show how much his close proximity bothered her. Or worry about why it was that it still bothered her. Or the thought that with a simple extension of her arm, she'd be able to touch him.

"Would it be acceptable for me to join you?"

His face was infuriatingly blank, but his tone was unwavering enough that she thought he might be serious in his request. Which made her next response all the more cumbersome to say.

"Ah, I...would love to, really, but Noah's picking me up. Made some sort of surprise dish at my place. Still trying to make up for letting me storm the streets a week ago, I think."

"He will most likely be expecting _intimacy_ after the meal."

"I imagine so, yes," she agreed happily, forcing herself not to cringe at his invasive statement. "Anything else you need before I go?"

His gaze, somewhere down the line, became unnerving in its bluish intensity. So much so that Molly had the faint urge to step back. Whether it was from an internal deduction going on in his head or because of her words, she couldn't say exactly. But his narrowed eyes, fully focused on her with little mercy, made her stomach clench tightly.

"Perhaps this coming week, you would like to accompany me to a restaurant of your choosing?"

It took longer than it should have for her to figure out what he was doing.

_He's trying, Molly. Oh bollocks, he's really trying. And now, out of all possible times. How bloody ironic._

Not ironic, she reminded herself. Just bad timing. And what he's trying for, isn't clear. But it's endearing in its own way, if not a bit tragic.

"Again...I'd love to, but I'm actually quite busy this coming week."

"Every single hour of the day?"

Under his gaze, she fought the urge to shift in place. Amazing how no matter the confidence she built up against the man, he could plow it down all with a simple look.

"Yes. I'm going to Ireland," she informed, cursing him mentally for suddenly being interested in her personal life.

"Work related?"

He sounded curious enough, but his darkened gaze deceived the polite inquiry.

"On holiday," she revealed. "With Noah. He's got this grand cottage not even a half hour from Dublin."

"I see."

"Yes," she nodded encouragingly. "My substitute, Tanner Spawl, has been wanting to meet you. He'll get along well wit-."

"Is going on holiday really what's best when you have a trial to prepare for?"

When she smiled, it was only to hold back the mother of all frowns.

"To clear my head, yes," she defended, crossing her arms. "It'll be a nice break before I have to relive that night all over again."

"I disagree. I think you will become disillusioned with your duties and return without having properly built yourself up to withstand what will be asked of you. Especially if there are any more incidents such as your reckless intoxication, that occur on your holiday."

Molly bit her lip, not out of shyness, but to keep back a retort she'd regret.

"What I do on my own time, doesn't concern you."

Irritation briefly overran his features.

"We both know that's not true."

"Does it look like I'm lying?" she objected, daring to take a step forward. "Why would I want to get you involved in my life again when you've done such a bleedin' fantastic job of being a hurtful bastard?"

"Because-," he stopped, jaw tightening up, seemingly having a difficult time with his response, "-_because_ I deserve a second chance. I failed to see your importance in my life when it mattered. Now that you are living so carelessly, I feel obliged to step in and-."

"Obliged?" she interrupted angrily. "You feel obliged...my God, can you be anymore of a selfish git? How many times do I have to tell you that it's my life and I'll do as I please? Just because I'm not living it according to how you should see it fit, doesn't mean it's wrong or careless. It means you either have to adjust or lose me in the process. Because I refuse to stop each time you have a tantrum at my change in behavior."

While her statement may have silenced him, his eyes still kept her in place with a dangerous concentration.

"Furthermore," she continued, taking the opportunity to speak her mind before it slipped away, "I'm tolerating your presence in my life, not requiring it. If you still want me as a work partner, I'd really think over the next words you want to come out of your mouth."

Sherlock took a menacing step forward.

Which had her seeking refuge by scurrying back.

Only too late did she realize he'd backed her into the sink. And the uncustomary feeling that sprouted inside her was reminiscent of a rodent at the bottom of the animal kingdom being properly cornered and caught by a higher up predator.

"Unsurprisingly, you lack the observatory skill to grasp that _I_," he enunciated lowly, body close enough to force her into a backwards arch, "no longer want a mere friendship with you."

Molly froze, several million implications racing through her head.

"You're not serious."

"Why is it such a constant surprise to learn you are worth something to me?"

"You push me away like I've got the plague."

"Sentiment is not an easy nor enjoyable endeavor of mine. But I am learning from past mistakes that ignorance, toward my feelings, is not always bliss."

She eyed him with disbelief, feeling her own face heat up.

"Sherlock," she began carefully, "what is it you want from me?"

"Other than your friendship and attention again?"

"Yes."

He didn't hesitate.

"I want everything from you."

His answer puzzled, disturbed, and excited her all in one go.

"You want everything from me?" she sounded out.

"Is that not what I said?" he recalled. "I can now see that you may have had a valid point in declaring me selfish."

She wished everything would simply stop and she could catch up with the emotions and impulses running rampant throughout her body. Because this was all getting to be a bit too much.

Vexed Sherlock she could handle.

Cold Sherlock she could handle.

Vulnerable Sherlock she could handle.

But this Sherlock who claimed to want everything from her, wasn't one she had prior knowledge of.

_Why are we even thinking this over? Yes, it's nice he's tried, but he's too late. Life is finally getting on without him._

Molly couldn't deny the truth of these thoughts. Life was moving smooth now that she severed her romantic feelings for Sherlock Holmes.

That being said, however, his proclamation still lingered in her ears far longer than it should have.

"Look, Sherlock...I appreciate that you tried..._are_ trying to mend the friendship between us," Molly acknowledged carefully, "but I cannot give you anything more than what I already have. I'm content right now. I'm being treated right by a guy I've developed strong, solid feelings for, despite his imperfections. To top it off, some of the best nights I've had in years, have been doing things that are probably considered reckless and insignificant in your eyes. But I don't mind because those memories make me feel alive. I'm...happy. Can't that be enough for you? After all these years of brushing me off, do you really want to uproot my life just because you realized too late that I could serve a purpose other than being your friend?"

He gradually allowed her space again by shuffling a few steps back.

But Molly's spine still dug into the sink, wanting - _needing_ the distance. His proclamation served to reawaken feelings she thought she'd long ago buried with a shovel and laid to rest.

"You are happy," he said, almost as if testing a theory.

"Yes. Very much so."

After what seemed like an eternity, he finally nodded.

"Then I am powerless to grant you that happiness which has so long eluded you," he accepted, taking another step back. "I still owe you a debt for saving my life."

"Don't make this a debt," she begged softly. "Do this out of...knowing that this is what's best for me."

"But it's not," Sherlock pointed out. "What's best for you is me."

The complete certainty in his voice (certainty she was damned curious about figuring out where, when, and how he'd acquired it), nearly tore at Molly's heart.

"At one point, yes, you were. But not now."

Rather than complying with her stance, Sherlock's eyes lit up. Like when he was struck with an idea for a particularly stubborn case.

"If what you say is the truth, then you would not mind participating in an experiment? One that will finally convince me we are no longer suited for each other."

"What sort of experiment?" Molly voiced uncertainly.

"Come here."

"What sort of experiment, Sherlock?"

"One that requires you to come here. Really, Molly, I'm not speaking a foreign language."

She muttered a few choice words under her breath, but at his expectant stare, reluctantly moved forward.

"Closer."

"I think this is-."

"CLOSER," he chided, holding out a hand.

She threw him a distrustful look, but placed her hand in his palm all the same, swallowing harshly as she did so.

He tugged her a few steps further until his mass towered over her.

"Now what?" she asked, ignoring the firm, yet oddly relaxing grip he held her hand in.

"Now," Sherlock announced, eyes boring into hers, "I will precede to kiss you."

Molly went to retreat, but Sherlock's grip prevented her from getting more than a few inches between them.

"You're not kissing me," she insisted.

"It is only a meeting of flesh. And according to you, entirely extraneous as you no longer retain any feelings for me."

"That doesn't mean I'm going to let you do it. I have a boyfriend."

"It's an experiment," Sherlock shrugged off. "I'm sure he'll understand. After all, it's in the name of science."

"Oddly not seeing the science part of the experiment."

"Chemistry, Molly, is a science. Those who kiss have often been known to have some sort of chemistry, though I believe the romantic notion would be ruined if they were made aware it is nothing more than an increase of endorphins and depending on the gender, testosterone or estrogen levels, that procure their feelings. But I am attempting to be romantic and if it is proven to me that we have none, I will cease bothering you."

"You're not going to let up until I agree, are you?"

"It's safe to assume I am committed to receiving an answer."

_Is this really happening? He's asking to kiss me because he wants to know if we have any chemistry. Is it possible that he's high?_

Seemingly able to read her thoughts, Sherlock pursed his lips in displeasure.

"You'd know the signs if I were using."

She bowed her head, knowing he was right and feeling a slight guilt for immediately assuming that was the case.

"Okay. Let's...do this, then."

"Aren't you going to inquire as to what will happen if there should be-."

"No. Because there's not going to be," she assured, meeting his eye.

Rather than answer, he leaned in closer.

Molly couldn't break her gaze away as his lips drew nearer and nearer to her own. While she tried to get it into her head that it was only Sherlock she was kissing (someone she was very much over), her body couldn't help but betray her in subtle ways. Her cheeks had successfully flushed up from his intense gaze and without allowing it, her own body made its own casual lean forward.

When there was but a few centimeters separating their lips, Molly felt two of Sherlock's fingers on her wrist, grow heavier.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?" came his grumbled reply, emanating somewhere from the back of his throat.

She blinked a few times before whispering, "Get your fingers off my pulse."

Immediately, the weight was abandoned before she could wonder whether the increase of her pulse was just her body acting up unwillingly or because this nearness actually affected her.

"Force of habit."

"I'm sure," she lightly scoffed.

His response was immediate.

In one graceful move, he was able to coil his free arm around her back, yank her roughly into his torso and transform what was meant to be a chaste kiss, into a stomach churning convergence of soft lips, sharp teeth, and saliva.

It was obscene.

It was unexpected.

It was to a point, equal parts pent up frustration and passion, moreso on Sherlock's part.

Molly, in her innocence, didn't stand a chance at containing her moan.

And Sherlock, cheeky man that he was, only grinned in satisfaction.

To him, she just proved that some sort of chemistry, no matter how unclear, was at work between them.

Rather than finding that thought weak and repulsive, he was strangely taken by the idea that he had made Molly moan. It made him wish to do so again. And to simultaneously show off this achievement to the disappointing excuse of a boyfriend his pathologist had.

Who inconveniently enough, stood frozen in place with one hand holding the lab's door open, silently absorbing the snogging duo.

Rather than make a scene, however, Noah only risked them one last scrutinous glance before slipping back out with the ease that he'd gone in.

* * *

**Sherlock does have a terrible time letting go, doesn't he? Poor Molly. How will she explain to him that her moan was just a response to his unexpected kiss? Or can it be that simple? It never is between these two. And will Noah confront Molly about what he saw? I'm more nervous about this chapter than I have been for any others, primarily because I'm beginning to reveal some emotion from a normally unemotional character. I think for any author, that's a grueling, nerve wracking process. But there's still surprises in store and Sherlock still has the issue of accepting what he's feeling , in time. Let me know your thoughts in a review.**


	7. The Tango of Three

**As always, I'd like to thank everyone who reviewed. Immense thanks to all of you for your kind words and support. What struck me in particular about the reviews from last chapter is how a lot of people believe I've done a fairly decent job of writing Sherlock's character. I'm a bit surprised at this - not unhappy - just surprised. My interpretations of fandom characters aren't always up to par or I have instances (like with Molly), where I spike up a certain trait not always common to a character just so the story has an edge or purpose. I never thought I quite mastered exact characterizations, but then again, to write Sherlock completely in character would probably not have proved much of a plot movement in this story. Either way, that's a very kind word on your parts and I thank you dearly. Though, I think I'll always have my own personal interpretation of Sherlock that won't be up to par with the show exactly. I think it's what we all walk away with after watching our brilliant (sometimes stubborn) detective at work and how we interpret why he does what he does or says what he says, that makes for writing entertaining fanfiction. Television Sherlock wouldn't nearly have progressed this far, we've all accepted it, but it's nice to imagine a Sherlock that does. So, without further ado, enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter 7 - The Tango of Three**

"That was a mistake. Oh, dear, that was a monumental, terrible mistake."

Sherlock had the audacity to roll his eyes, attempting to take a step further.

"Don't," Molly yelped, keeping one arm extended before her in a clear warning. "Just _don't _bloody get any closer."

"Your moaning and full engagement in the kiss, indicated a substantial amount of pleasure. Deny yourself that, Molly, and I might possibly think you the stupidest woman alive."

"Fine, yes, do that!" she begged, supporting herself on the sink behind her. "I'm a stupid, stupid woman. Good, yes. Nothing happened."

"Don't be difficult," he scolded.

"I'm stupid. Stupid people are difficult. That was a mistake."

"If it is any consolation, your stupidity can be overlooked as I still hold the urge to kiss you again."

"Sherlock," she squealed, extended arm shaking, "please, just stay there and let me collect my thoughts."

"I've done all your deductions for you, Molly. Congratulations, it would appear you're still in love with me."

The pathologist paled as horror overtook her features.

_Not to worry, that's not what it means. He just surprised me. That's all. _

"I'm not overly shocked," Sherlock continued, baritone voice growing more confident. "Yes, time apart can cause people to outgrow dependency and fondness. But you've loved me for years. And you do not take an emotion such as love, lightly. It would be unprecedented for you to lose all your affections in just the period of two months."

"I do _not_ love you."

"No need to be defensive. I'm merely implying that you still retain feelings of intense passion towards me."

This, above all else, was the breaking point for Molly.

With a speedy leap, she wove around Sherlock's looming form and booked it to the morgue doors.

"Now who's running from their feelings?"

Molly froze, feeling like she'd smacked into a brick wall.

"Don't you dare," she murmured in a deceptively timid voice, spinning around to face him. "Don't you bloody dare assume that you running from what I said two months ago in my apartment, is comparable to this. It was an experiment, for heaven's sake! It meant nothing, Sherlock."

"You moaned."

"Because I thought your kiss would be quick! How was I supposed to know you were planning to rob me of my saliva?"

"Now, you are being dramatic," Sherlock reprimanded. "The saliva glands function constantly. It would be physically impossible for my tongue alone to deplete you of your sali-."

"Sherlock! You are missing the point," Molly reasoned swiftly. "That kiss...it had no deeper meaning than just an experiment procured out of boredom and possibly because you're still having a rough time seeing me move on. Nothing more."

"I disagree."

"You're not always right."

"I am a majority of the time. And don't think this is something I will make the mistake of not storing in my mind palace. You moaned when I kissed you, Molly Hooper. By the laws of chemistry, you not only enjoyed that kiss, but still have feelings for me."

"Since when did the laws of chemistry state that?"

"I've incorporated this theory into a law based on my experiment. With good reason."

Shaking her head in exasperation, Molly pestered, "Drop it, Sherlock. Please, for both of our sakes. There's nothing you could do about it even if your experiment was true."

For the first time since he'd kissed her, Sherlock appeared to mentally and physically slow down. His animated features began to neutralize and his eyes reduced to a narrowed, icy blue.

"You will honestly seek comfort in denial?"

"I've seen firsthand that denial for you is a haven from your feelings," Molly pointed out. "Don't blame me for not making your same mistakes."

This seemed to drastically alter the atmosphere in the morgue.

Molly, for one, quite suddenly felt far colder. And she knew a margin of it had to do with her recent statement.

It gutted her to say, but Sherlock's insistency proved to be just about maddening. Followed up by his assumption that she felt the same way he did simply because she shied away from what was nothing more than an experiment in the first place.

_Had to do it. Giving him hope, if that's what he's in search of, is far meaner._

Throughout this mental self talk, she had to briefly acknowledge that Sherlock wasn't full of it completely when it came to being reminded of her feelings for him.

While her moan had been a reaction from his consuming kiss, the feelings that stirred up inside her during and in the few seconds after it, no matter how fleeting, didn't seem to have a beginning point. They literally came out of nowhere and left before she could properly mull them over.

Worse yet, Sherlock appeared to be the only witness to them.

It wasn't troubling at this point. She still knew she loved Noah. One kiss from Sherlock wasn't going to change that.

But his sudden desire to actually pursue his own instincts rather than coldly ignore them as he normally did, intrigued her. And made her feel decidedly...warm inside.

Which was bad, but not yet troubling.

_This holiday couldn't have come at a better time, could it?_

"My keys are on the desk if you need anything," she mentioned, very much hoping he'd be long gone by then. "Good luck with your case."

Before he could respond, Molly exited the morgue.

()()()()()()()()()

"Noah?"

"In the kitchen."

She followed the sound of his voice, smiling at the heavy dose of glazed lemon in the air.

"Smells amazing. What'd you make?"

Upon entering the kitchen, her smile widened. There was something utterly magnificent and domestic about seeing your boyfriend leaning over a stove and cooking you lunch. It almost made the burden of what she had to discuss with him next, disappear altogether.

But of course, Molly knew she'd have to mention the issue. She hated having to do so because it meant so little and if explained the wrong way, Noah might make it out to mean something it's not.

However, she owed this man the truth. Were she in his shoes, she'd expect it out of her as well.

"I initially thought chicken parmesan, but you're due back in less than thirty. So, I've decided on the lemon grilled chicken? That alright?" Noah asked.

"Absolutely. It still amazes me that you didn't pursue some sort of culinary school."

"Only ones I was interested in were filled with snobbish wankers from France. You'd think they invented cooking from the way they showed off."

"Idiots. All of them," she teased.

"Exactly! I've always wanted a girlfriend who would share my hatred of the French."

Smirking, Molly propped her hip against the counter.

"I don't hate all French people. Actually, I think there's a negative astigmatism associated with their attempts at elegance and maturity."

"Molly, it's okay. There's no one French around to hear you."

Chuckling, Molly looked down at her feet. A surprisingly sobering action as her good humor soon died.

"There's something I've got to tell you, Noah."

Her boyfriend nodded to show he was listening, but otherwise, continued browning the chicken.

"It's all a bit silly really...nothing to even worry about. A mistake on my part and an experiment on his. I don't even think-."

"Molly," Noah peered up at her, "is this about you locking lips with Sherlock Holmes?"

She shifted uncomfortably in place, relieved and worried to see such a calm impassiveness resting on his features.

"You...know?"

"Slipped in at the wrong time to come pick you up," he informed, focusing back on the chicken. "Wasn't sure what I saw. Assured myself you'd explain it."

"It meant nothing."

"So you say. But I know a little bit about Sherlock Holmes. An old flatmate of mine, 'round two years ago, went to him seeking help. His sister had been missing for nearly four years. Police just thought she ran away, but Adam, my flatmate, was sure their father had killed her. He'd been molesting her, supposedly, and she was getting the guts to run away."

"Adam didn't do anything about it?"

"Adam was adopted. He was indebted to the man for giving him a proper home and education. Much as he loved his sister, he couldn't find the guts until it was too late, to help her."

Engrossed with the story, Molly edged herself closer to the stove.

"Was she murdered?"

"Don't know. Holmes never took the case. Said it was excruciatingly uneventful and told Adam it was a good lesson in helping people when you had the chance."

"That's a bit...cruel."

"Adam wanted to bust the bloke's nose. Still feels guilty to this day because for all he knows, Janeen could be dead."

Molly's brows furrowed in confusion.

"Hang on...Janeen?"

"Adam's sister's name," Noah clarified.

_There's no bloody way. That'd be the holy grail of coincidences that the Janeen I met is actually Adam's sister. Janeen is a common name...sort of. _

"Point is when Adam told me of his encounter with the detective, I had a bad impression of him," Noah explained. "Sounded like a cold-hearted bastard. Heard similar stories of his notorious attitude. Then, I began dating you and you told me you two were only friends. I never had much reason to believe otherwise because, well...still thought him a cold-hearted bastard. But, seeing you two kissing today...it made me think that he might lower his guard down very rarely for people he cares greatly for. Seeing one of those people being you...makes me hesitant to believe that you two are still just friends. Or that it didn't mean anything."

"He kissed me to get a reaction," Molly revealed, fully prepared for his doubt. "That's a cold-hearted bastard, not a man who lowers his guard down."

"You seem sure."

"I know Sherlock. He chooses mind over matter each and every time."

It took a minute or two, but Noah eventually looked appeased with this response, corner of one lip tugging up.

"And that's where we are drastically different. As soon as you eat this, I plan on pursuing matter over mind on the kitchen table."

"Kitchen table?" Molly piped in surprise, glancing at the object. "Not sure if it's quite durable enough."

"If it breaks, I'll buy you another. Never liked that table anyway."

"So you'll be sure to try and break it?"

"Of course. Though, we won't have much time, will we?"

When she moved to his side, he snaked an arm around her shoulders, leaning over to kiss her temple.

"On holiday, we can shag until we're sick of it."

"Never be sick of shagging," he vowed, turning off the stove. "'Specially not with you."

"I've already agreed," she noted, pecking him on the side of the chin, "don't need to say anything more."

"Just trying to be romantic."

At this, Molly wrapped an arm around his neck and pulled his lips down to her own.

"What was that for?" he breathed once their lips separated.

Wanting to say a million things at once, Molly opted for simplicity.

"Everything."

With that, she began pushing him further from the stove and nearer to the kitchen table.

"I'm to guess the chicken will be dinner," he mentioned, hands sliding off Molly's lab coat.

"It'll be a lovely evening meal," she agreed, fingers making quick work of removing his t-shirt. "Besides...I was more in the mood for dessert."

Noah laughed, a deep, rich sound invading the room.

"Just trying to be romantic," she added.

Fifteen minutes later and Molly's closest neighbor, a seventy-three year old woman named Catherine Bradley, could have sworn she heard the sound of a wooden table smacking against the floor in agony.

Then again, it could have just been her hearing aid going bonkers.

* * *

**Lots of questions, hm? And a lot of miscommunication. It's not so easy, Sherlock will realize, to convince Molly that he's sincere. And hey, could the Janeen Noah mentioned, be the one Molly encountered? And if it is, why didn't Sherlock tell Adam that he knew her location? Remember that Molly doesn't yet know that Janeen and Sherlock are acquainted. Oh, dear, I do believe I've created a subplot. How exciting. Next chapter, Janeen checks in with Sherlock. On a side note, I've been reading bits of interviews with the creators of Sherlock (Mr. Gatiss & Moffat), regarding season 3, and they've both admitted that they didn't believe Sherlock to be capable of being in a romantic relationship. His brilliant mind and deducing things is essentially sex for him. Which is understandable. That's him in a nutshell. They also mentioned that Molly is someone Sherlock trusts as a good friend. That was a bit disappointing as I'm a firm Sherlolly supporter and had hoped for some sort of progression in a romantic sense between them, but I trust their direction completely. But then one of them mentioned that Molly will be very angry at Sherlock in this coming season (might last an episode, maybe longer, I'm not sure) for a particular event that occurs. This had me kind of nervous because it might very well be that Sherlock could have said what he had at the morgue on the night before the Fall, just to once again get Molly's help. She might incorporate it to mean something more while he'll have no such business in mind. Granted, it's a stretch, but this possibility had me shaking in anger for a few seconds. From what I've read, it appears Sherlock's reach out to Molly was genuine, but I can't help think it'd be a stunt they'd pull just so Sherlock remains strictly asexual (and because Moffat is a sneaky, agonizing bastard). If that is the case, I might scream. Still watch the show, but scream altogether. And then I'd have to channel my dark side and begin shipping Molly and Jim. God, Jim was great, wasn't he? Well, I guess end of this year (or beginning of next), we'll know. Let me know your thoughts in a review!**


	8. The Courage of Cowards

**Firstly, thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter. There wasn't much to respond to, I know, and I really did want to establish a realistic relationship for Molly to where she wouldn't just leave Noah unexpectedly because Sherlock kissed her. Noah does provide her with love and balance. But as we know, experiments aren't always what they seem. Just as well, you know when you're trying to squirt out that last glob of your tooth paste after it's been twisted and flattened out beyond recognition? Well, that toothpaste bottle is Sherlock, and that last glob is his feelings. Moral of the story? That last glob is stubborn as all hell. Enjoy!**

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**Chapter 8 - The Courage of Cowards**

"I fail to understand."

"Emotions aren't your forte," John admitted helpfully, briefly glancing up from his laptop to peer at his sulking friend.

"But she obviously enjoyed it."

"All because of a moan? Even I'll admit that's a bit of a stretch for you to go on regarding Molly's feelings."

"Why else would she have moaned?" Sherlock persisted, staring up at the ceiling as his arms tightened securely around his knees.

"You surprised her. Come on, Sherlock. Give this a rest. You're going to drive yourself mental."

"Her physical responses were genuine," he mumbled, ignoring the advice. "She ran. Obviously afraid of her feelings. All I have to do is confront her-."

"Sherlock, no," John interjected, deciding to draw the line. "She is in a relationship. You conducted an experiment that she had no reason to assume meant anything other than what you said. Confronting her will only bring about more animosity in your relationship than you already have. I hate to say this because there was once a point where I did warm up to the idea of you two being together, but if you really are feeling honest to god affection for her, then let Molly live her life with the bloke she's got now. She's happy. After everything Morris put her through, not to mention the emotional turbulence she suffered while being in love with you, she deserves at least that."

John felt his insides twist when Sherlock aimed a cold, withering glare on him. It made him feel decidedly evil for offering such aloof advice.

But with every angle he looked at the situation, the best option honestly remained letting Molly go. Yes, he'd gotten his own personal glimpse of what the detective had been feeling for the pathologist, but it was only a glimpse and it wasn't nearly concrete enough for him to advise Sherlock on breaking off a relationship that made Molly happy.

"And what of my happiness, John?"

"It's a passing phase. You're unused to seeing her settle down with a decent man who is taking with him, a considerate part of her attentions. You have an ego, mate. And Molly helped inflate it. Now that she's not there, I imagine you're a bit of a sputtering balloon."

"You are ghastly with analogies."

"Oh, bugger off. You get my point anyway."

"I would have, were there any truth to it."

"What isn't true about it?"

Sherlock's lips thinned at this and unexpectedly, his gaze fell to the wall. With his jaw strung tight, John guessed he was possibly mulling over what to say next.

"This isn't a passing phase."

John rubbed at his eyes. It'd be absolutely lovely to have a book right about now regarding the consulting detective's feelings. Certainly would make his job a bit easier.

"Meaning?"

Sighing dramatically, Sherlock glared at him again.

"Meaning that what I'm...emotionally encountering, has been rooted inside me for far longer than I care to admit."

Suspending his belief for the moment, John pointed out, "Two weeks doesn't count. That's been the time, maybe a bit less, since you found out why Molly was distancing herself from you."

"It hasn't been two weeks," Sherlock defended forcefully. "If you can imagine it, the starting point may have been closer to over a year ago."

"You're joking," he accused, not quite believing the words.

"Deadly serious, John. At this point, I have little to gain by lying."

"Yo-you've been in love with Molly for over a year and have now just decided to act on your feelings?" John gathered hastily. "My God, Sherlock. Become a monk or priest. Because I'd never have thought you of maintaining that much patience."

"I'm not in love with her," Sherlock defended swiftly, though his tone dropped to a slower uncertainty regarding his latter statement. "I wasn't initially, at least. I'm unclear as to what it is I feel."

When the detective didn't elaborate, John closed his laptop. Suddenly, what was going on before him was a far better source of entertainment.

"Out with it, mate."

"What's the point? You've made it clear I should do little to pursue my own feelings regarding Miss Hooper."

"That was before you decided to be honest and drop the bomb that you've been harboring feelings for her for over a bloody year! I didn't think you were sincere about this, but judging by the fact that I don't think I've ever seen you squirm so much in your seat, I'm willing to withhold my skepticism. You need to discuss this, Sherlock. Ideally, I'm the person to do it with. Otherwise, you'll be constantly at war with not only your feelings, but acting on them."

"But _what_ is the point?" he repeated firmer. "Why nurture thoughts of sentiment and care when it will only be met with rejection?"

"Molly hasn't rejected you completely."

"Weren't you only informing me minutes ago that her moan was hardly a suitable sign of returning affection?"

John exhaled at this, realizing at that moment how delicately he'd have to explain the situation, or more specifically, what his own thoughts were now that this new information was wedged in his head. He wasn't just directing Sherlock's potential happiness, but Molly's as well. One wrong word and he could completely disintegrate their friendship forever before it even had the chance to progress to something more.

"It's not. She could have been genuinely surprised by you kissing her," he informed. "But her reaction is at least something."

By the blank look on Sherlock's face, John could tell he wasn't following.

"Rather than ignoring the kiss completely or more importantly, remaining unaffected by it, Molly jumped away from you. You said she didn't want you any closer. That's not the proper reaction from someone who believes it was an experiment in the first place."

"What does it mean?"

"Before I answer that and put ideas in your head, I need you to explain in detail just what it is you're feeling for Molly. You've established it's not a passing fancy, but something longer lasting. From the looks of it, you don't have very good discipline of it because now that Molly's moving on, you understand for the first time in your life that you'll actually have to act on them or risk losing her. That's made for some stupid comments on your part, resulting in further disbelief and distancing on Molly's. So, Sherlock...I'm all ears. Because if you are serious about this, serious about being with her, you are going to have to acknowledge what your own feelings are rather than expecting her to pick them out. Without acceptance of what's there, it's impossible for a relationship to begin."

"Isn't that all just a bit dram-?"

"Nope," John assured, shaking his head "Look at us. When we first met, you got me to accept that I still craved a life of action. I got you to accept that you can't always go it alone. We're still mates years later. That's a sustaining relationship. You look down on vulnerability, but truth is, you've had it on display for years. Reason you don't see it is because it's called friendship and I'm not a heartless enough bastard to ever do anything to you that'd ruin what it is we've got. But you are capable of showing emotion, Sherlock. And I should think Molly's earned more than enough of your trust to not ever want to expose you for it."

Sherlock stayed mute for an unnervingly long time, staring through him.

Initially, John was relieved. At least he was thinking carefully over what he personally thought was a pretty damn good speech.

But after two minutes of continuous silence, he got a bit worried.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?" came his slow drawl.

"What do you think?"

"About what?"

Feeling the slightest bit exasperated, John continued, "About Molly."

"What about her?"

"Were you even listening to a word I said?"

"Faintly."

"Sometimes, you are impossible."

"Stubborn, but not impossible."

When he continued to withhold all further thought, John abruptly stood.

"If you're not willing to talk to me about what you're feeling, then I doubt you're ready to pursue a relationship with Molly."

"That is your prognosis, doctor?"

"It's reality, Sherlock."

With that, the blogger slipped out of the room.

Seconds later and the slam of the door echoed through the flat.

All the while, Sherlock kept staring forward. Outwardly, one would think him put together and uncompromised with his unmoving features.

Internally, however, he was utterly and hopelessly conflicted with what was on his mind.

()()()()()()()()()

"You're late."

"Marginally. I had prior contacts to meet with."

"Glad to know I'm listed so high on your priorities," Janeen grimly stated, gesturing with her head to follow.

"Have you discovered anything productive?"

"You sound edgy. Which means no one else could get you good information."

"If you are only here to gloat, then I am wasting my time," Sherlock decided.

"Oh, please. I'll leave the gloating up to you. But I've collected information here and there. Though, I do have a suggestion before divulging what I've learned so far."

"Enlighten me."

"Let Molly know what you're doing for her."

At his silence, she sighed tiredly.

"Come on, Sherlock. Did you honestly think I wouldn't inquire about who it was you were sheltering from the storm? You actually care about someone. I'm not going to turn a blind eye to that. And a good person who doesn't deserve being the target of a pig like Morris. That's nothing to feel shameful about."

"Janeen, you are not here to lecture me about my feelings," he bit out. "Tell me what you've learned."

Unimpressed by his aversion to the topic, she continued their winding path through the park.

"Morris is an idiot, but he's not a murderer. Extortion, embezzlement, theft, robbery, arson, assault, identity theft, drug dealer. You name a crime, he's done it. What surprised me is how suddenly he decided to turn to murder. So, I got in contact with old friends. Girlfriends. He's got a nasty, nasty temper. This is something I'd like to stress on, Sherlock, as it will play an importance."

"Go on," he demanded.

"Not one of his three exes from the past year, still has an unmarked face. He loves the control in the relationship. Gets off on the helplessness they feel when he's beating them. But absolutely loses it when they try defending themselves. Nearly strangled one to death because she hadn't been in the mood to screw around one night."

"How dreadfully boring," Sherlock admitted. "A man with a temper. Here I had hoped he was naturally inclined to bloodlust and thus wanted to become a serial killer."

"Sometimes, I'm disturbed at knowing you."

"You wouldn't have led me to this more secluded area of the park if that was all you had to say."

"How observant," she noted dryly. "While Morris is an idiot with a temper, he's also an idiot with connections to important people. This, I haven't been able to figure out. How does he have enough money to afford a solid defense team? Prior to being jailed, he owed people money. What do you make of it?"

"Follow up on his family," he suggested. "It is beginning to sound like a complicated relationship between father and son."

"I'm afraid I don't follow."

"The father has a successful and expensive job. Most likely, is also a common name in the tabloids. Wife's died long ago, but the father forces his son to keep mummy's maiden name. Knows his son is a criminal who's unwilling to change and doesn't want any further association with him should he get into trouble. Morris it is. Possibly pays his own son off to disappear. However, the father isn't completely devoid of sympathy. Still loves his son, as all fathers do. Understands he wouldn't be able to sustain that money for long. Keeps an eye on him. Helps him avoid jail time. You've noticed how despite all these crimes, this is the first time Morris is going through the courts?"

"Yes."

"Father maintains his guilt free conscious of ostracizing his son by making sure he's never jailed by calling in favors. Anything more and their relationship crumbles. My best guess is that the father is doing everything possible to help his son avoid go away for a long time. Indirectly, of course. Any public association with him may slander and ruin his name. And he's built far too extravagant of a life for that to occur. No, sacrifices must be made. He will help his son, but never take full credit or associate with him."

"You got all that just out of Morris having a defense team?"

"You know me better by now, Janeen."

"Yes...I do. Just...always gets me, you know?"

Sherlock stayed silent on this.

"I'll check in on the family. Which will be difficult, no doubt, seeing as the father doesn't want anything to publicly do with his son. But if your theory is correct, how can that help Molly win her case?"

"I will test the loyalty of father and son. True, the father will never stop loving his flesh and blood. But is he selfish enough to hold his possessions and lifestyle above that?"

"You're willing to expose their relationship publicly," she surmised.

"If that is what it takes, yes."

"Isn't that a bit...cold? I mean...if I was Morris's kin, I don't think I'd want any association with him either."

"And could you honestly tell me the outcome would be better?"

Janeen nodded at this, knowing he was right. Which reminded her that she hadn't told him the most important information she'd learned yet.

At first, she planned on avoiding the issue. To her, at least, it was glaringly clear that Sherlock loved Molly. And a sociopath in love wasn't someone to mess with.

But halfway through their introduction, she decided against it. At this point, should what she heard actually come to pass, Sherlock may be the only person who could help keep Molly safe.

"There's been talk," she redirected, involuntarily tensing up, "about other criminals who've through one person or another, been in contact with Morris since he's been jailed."

"Talk of what?"

"Morris has a dreadful temper," she recounted. "Molly not only survived his assault, but stood up to him. He's not too pleased. And supposedly...he's been searching for someone who's willing to put a hit on her."

She didn't meet his eyes at this, somehow knowing that whatever she'd find upon a deeper look, would be an emotion she wasn't meant to see.

"He's been unsuccessful, I presume?"

"Yes. Not all hitmen are idiots. A lot of them are aware Morris owes people money. They've declined because there's no guarantee he can pay up. Then, there's others who...are unwilling to pay the price of killing her."

"That price being?"

"You," she revealed, glancing at him. "People aren't always as transparent as you think. While you can hide the fact that you care for Molly, you can't hide your friendship. It's public knowledge to nearly anyone who searches for you on the web. Molly Hooper: the Woman who Helped Fake Sherlock's Death. I'm told there's even a fan base dedicated to you two getting together. Might have to wait a few lifetimes for that. But those guns for hire who are aware of what you did to bring down Moriarty and his network, aren't exactly jumping at the opportunity to kill off the woman who saved your life. They've got too much to lose because they believe you'd come after them."

"What makes you think I wouldn't?"

Janeen hesitated.

"Janeen," he repeated lowly, continuing his rigid stroll. "What makes you think I wouldn't hunt every single one down and kill them?"

If she wasn't cold already, she knew she would have sprouted a full on shiver at the dark promise in his tone.

"Your attitude towards her," she offered.

"And is it not saving her life currently?" he asked. "Were they aware how close she is to me, she might be killed simply to get a reaction. Of grief, I'd assume. No, I've played it impeccably. I would rather they fear I'd come after them to avenge her as a friend rather than anyone know she is a priority in my life and thus would cause me...unhappiness were she to be taken away. In the real world, when strategic games are played with lives, caring is not the advantage. "

"Looks like you're taking that to heart."

"Don't talk confidently of things you know little about."

"I could say the same for you," she returned. "Caring isn't advantage? Alright, I can see how that's sheltering Molly from being used against you. But what the hell is that mindset doing to your insides? Those insides that DO care about her. And who'll be the object of that battle? The woman who helped you survive one of the darkest times of your life. She doesn't deserve that, Sherlock. And guess what? Morris isn't going to stop asking for a hit on her head. Pretty soon, someone's going to come along who'll be more heartless than you and take that job. But hey, at least you can be proud to know that when you're standing over her dead corpse, you at least saved face. At least no one ever had the chance to briefly think that for a split second in time, Sherlock Holmes actually cared about someone other than himself."

He had stopped in his tracks, but Janeen, in her incense, couldn't bother to care. She didn't understand how a man so brilliant could ignore, much less not see the damage he was doing with his own actions.

Then again, that might be why he'd been such a successful addict.

Either way, she was finished with Sherlock Holmes. And with her continuous stalking forward, she knew he'd understand this.

There wasn't much she could do at this point anyway, to help him. The battle raging inside was his alone to battle.

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**How tense. You have to admit that Sherlock has a lot riding for him in admitting to his feelings, depending on how deeply they extend. Poor man can't seem to admit to them, can he? And if he does, what's Molly to do? It's like for every step forward, there's two steps back. And then do the shuffle, swing your hips, touch your toes. Hm, maybe a dancing Sherlock in the next chapter? Nah...let me know your thoughts in a review.**


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